


Angelhawke

by almaasi



Category: Ladyhawke (1985), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, DCBB 2012, Epic, M/M, Supernatural AU: Animal Transformations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 407,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Dean/Cas Fantasy-Drama AU, set in a medieval world where two men are separated by a curse: every sunrise and sunset, both are eternally bound to transform into animals. Every night when darkness falls, Dean Winchester becomes a wolf, and his human mind is lost until the dawn. As the sun rises, his lover Castiel becomes a hawk. Their story has been the same for five years - until the day that a young thief named Sam stumbles into their twisted lives. Without even realising it, he becomes a part of their destiny, their paths entwined in prophecy and fate. Together with a few old friends, they set off on a journey to break the curse, but it won’t be easy. To pass the time, Dean and Castiel take turns to recount their past to Sam, narrating the tale of how they met, how they formed their profound bond, and how they found themselves wanting what no man should ever want: the touch of another man.<br/>‘Angelhawke’ is a saga of forbidden love, friendship, and magic - but above all, family. Partially based on the 1985 movie ‘Ladyhawke’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT ATTEMPT TO READ THIS ALL AT ONCE. YOU WILL DIE. I’m serious. Take regular breaks. Get up and walk around. Sleep. Eat. Don’t let this story consume your life.  
> (It’s ‘Angel’ and ‘hawk’ with a silent ‘e’.)  
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings:** Very, very long. Includes graphic violence, homophobia and internalised homophobia, torture, death of minor characters; brief mentions of rape and past suicide attempts; explicit sex: comeplay, rimming, exhibitionism, intercrural, frottage; top!Dean, top!Cas. Heavy on blasphemy, purposeful historical inaccuracies, and swearing. Male/male slash. And... British spelling.
> 
>  
> 
>  **IF THIS FORMATTING IS TOO CRAMPED TO READ** (sorry about that, btw, I'm working on it) - better-spaced PDFs are available on the LJ masterpost:
> 
> [Livejournal masterpost](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/19366.html)  
> [Art by eletrikfeather](http://electrikfeather.livejournal.com/96692.html)

A red-tailed hawk, like any bird, is in the world, but not of it.  
Known for its hunting prowess, speed, and agility - a beautifully crafted killing machine. It moves fluidly through the air, cutting through the sky faster than any human could on land. It’s sharp, and precise. It does what it’s meant to.  
It also has a beating heart. A living, breathing body that its soul resides in, keeping it sustained on this mortal plane. One day the body will die, severed from the air by starvation or old age. Rarely hunted by some other animal, never fearing for its life at the hands of another. That’s just how the world works.  
~  
 _Brother._ Sam swallowed. _I swear, if I get out of here alive... Oh, man..._  
The chances of that seemed unlikely anyway. There was no point promising anything.  
Sam took another deep breath and surged himself forward again, belly pressed into the damp clay that surrounded him on all sides. It clamped tight to his shoulders, holding him in the same position he’d started in when he began his scrabble through the underside of the world.  
This escape, he was fully aware, would lead to an instant death sentence, should he ever be caught again. Which would hopefully be never.  
Then again, whichever way he went right now, it ended in death. If he went back, he was to be hung. Forward - well, forward could mean death too, but he at least had a few more options for how he would go. At the moment, the odds seemed stacked toward suffocation, if he didn’t get out of the wall of clay he was currently digging through with his bare hands.  
His blunt nails were straining with the pressure of pulling through the ground. It was almost like swimming. But there was nowhere for the clay to go once he’d scraped it past his head, so it stayed there and squashed to the sides of his tunnel as he squeezed past. His chin was pressed to the bottom, the musty scent of soft earth filling his nostrils. For the last thing he would ever smell, this sure beat the smell of a sewer back in his prison cell. After just a single night spent in prison, the smell was latched into his mind, and he didn’t think he would ever shake it free.  
 _Brother,_ Sam began again. _My life hasn’t been all that long - although it’s been longer than a lot of people’s... I’d have liked to have seen thirty, you know?_ He sighed out loud, then realised his mistake as his own exhalation pushed right back in his face, air thick and almost empty of oxygen. _But... it’s been nice. These twenty-two winters, twenty-two summers. I almost made it to twenty-three. I―_  
He could barely think any more, his chest was too cramped and there was so little air. He maybe had enough breath for another ten seconds. _I just want to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me. Even if you were never real._  
And then he stopped thinking. He raked a hand in front of his face, clawing through mud. He didn’t even hear the splat of it this time, his ears had given up. He kicked one foot behind him in a last attempt to move forward. His face hit a soft wall right in front of him, of solid dirt.  
He was never getting out of here. He couldn’t breathe in, there was nothing to breathe. He felt himself lose consciousness, the whole world tumbling into his bones and pressing him inward.  
~  
In a long forgotten cavern, in a dark, dank alcove of stone beside the moat, one side of the supporting castle walls collapsed. Nobody would ever notice, except one slender, half-dead young man.  
He fell into the moat with a slippery _plop_. There were several seconds of silence, while the moat rippled and regained its former stillness. Then came a desperate splash and the unmistakable sound of a dying man taking a life-saving breath of air. The splashing didn’t stop for quite a while, while Sam gasped and let his eyes adjust to total darkness.  
Total? No. Not total darkness. There was light, right there under the water. Daylight, glimmering grey through the murky water. Sam laughed.  
Then he took a deep breath and dived, straight for the light. He’d never swum with so great a power in his strokes before, even with arms this exhausted. Scooping his way through ten feet of clay with his bare hands was not something he ever wanted to do again.  
The light got brighter as he swam, his lungs aching but coping, legs kicking furiously. He let out a tiny stream of bubbles, feeling pressure on his lungs loosen a slight.  
Almost there, almost there. He had to be.  
He curled himself around a rusty metal rail lodged into the stonework he was swimming underneath, kicking himself off it with his feet. His feet - in his newly exchanged boots. _Thank you, Rat._  
He smiled as he swam, strokes getting more desperate. He grunted with pain as his lungs strained inside him, and another ribbon of bubbles escaped his mouth.  
He needed air. Now.  
He thrashed once more, then turned and pulled up to the surface. It was bright, but if it wasn’t open air, he was done for. Again.  
For several seconds after Sam breached the surface, nothing registered in his mind except the feeling of conscious thought actually being possible. As air rushed into him, he felt his head pound against itself, cold and refreshing. He’d never felt so good in his life. _Life._ He was alive.  
His throat gasped itself raw as he gulped in the best air he’d ever tasted.  
Bright, green - he was outside. Just after dawn, the light breaking through a fading mist. He was under the drawbridge, his heavy breathing masked by the sound of horses’ hooves on the wood over him. He swam to the side of the moat, grasping overhanging grass that dragged through the water. Oh, just to touch something living. It was wonderful.  
He grinned to himself, and sidled along the bank, trembling legs kicking weakly. He was so relieved, he could feel himself starting to shut down, body worn out. But he couldn’t, he was nowhere near safe. He kept pulling himself along, tufts of grass coming away in his hands. Twenty feet down the moatside, there was a ledge, where a fat Guard-marked man sat, turned away, fiddling with his golden belt buckle as he watched farmers carry their wares up toward the drawbridge. Sam spied a purse of coins tied to the back of his belt.  
Could he risk it? Sam balanced his chances. If he were caught right now, he had no way to get away; he couldn’t swim faster than the Guard’s crossbow could shoot. But to be free and wandering in a world with no possessions of any sort, nothing for him but simply his life - well, he wasn’t going to get very far. “Brother,” he whispered out loud, panting softly. “Forgive me for this. But you know I wouldn’t unless I had to. And.. uh - It’s nice to be alive, by the way.”  
He held his breath as he surged forward, treading water. He untied the pouch as carefully as he could, as gentle as a snake through grass. The Guardsman would never feel it. Sam slipped away through the water as quietly as he had come, turning his hands through it like a frog.  
He pulled out of the moat when he reached the far embankment, his movements thankfully hidden by a willow tree that hunched over the surface of the water, dragging its leaves. His legs shook like never before, and he flopped down onto a pillow of clover, closing his eyes for a moment to savour how alive he felt.  
A miracle. That’s what it was.  
 _Thank you, Brother_.  
~  
The prison grate rose with a sudden clack, shivering against the pulley, as the young Guardsman named Rat held it with the rope curled around his wrists.  
A short, brown-haired woman marched to stand just on the inside of the gate. “Where’s the boy?” she demanded, hand held firmly over the pommel of her sword.  
The Guardsman glanced at her quickly. “You mean Sam?” he asked, eyes raking over the woman’s full leather armour. A woman in the Guard was not unheard of, but it was uncommon. She was indeed a fighter, Rat thought, seeing the decisive way she carried herself. She wore the armour like it was part of her.  
The woman snorted derisively. “Whatever his name is.” She turned her round eyes on Rat, who fidgeted with the rope, fingers turning numb as he held the gate open for her. There was only one prisoner left inside the cramped, gross cell, when there should have been two. “Where is he?”  
“He, um―”  
“Little pretty slithered away, din’ he?” came a cackle from the vicinity of the floor. There, beside the pole in the middle of the prison, was the remaining prisoner, an old man with a sharp face, slumped over himself like he was in pain. He coughed wetly, and grinned an uncomfortably happy grin. “Little snake, little jewel... shiny in the sun. Pretty.”  
The woman ground her teeth, then took a step closer and squatted in front of the dirty man, reaching a hand out to prod him in the chest, but thought better of it once her gloved hand got within an inch of him. Instead she held her open palm in front of him threateningly. “Where did he go?”  
“Slithered into the hole in the ground, slippy and―”  
He was cut off by a slap to the face. “Either tell me the truth or don’t, it makes no difference to me,” she said, shaking her head gently.  
“I already told you, he slid. Slid through - _there_.” The man clasped his reddening face and raised his other hand to gesture at the square drain on the other side of the support pole.  
The woman sneered at the drain, and spat out, “Impossible. Nobody could fit through there.”  
“I saw it with my own eyes. Beetles. Beetles in sunlight, he was.”  
The woman huffed through her nose and stood up, hand still tight around her sword. “Hang this man,” she directed to Rat. “Search every sewer. Every drain. Find the boy. Or the Captain will hang you in his place.”  
Rat nodded, his eyes wide, starting forward to grab at the cackling madman. He let the gate drop after the woman stepped out, and followed behind her as she made her way up the steps toward the daylight. The prisoner struggled in his grip but only grunted as Rat shoved him upward toward his death.  
The stone steps felt strange beneath Rat’s second-hand shoes, worn and cold and slippery. He hoped Sam was still alive.  
~  
Raphael laughed. His voice was deep and whole, and Ruby would never admit it, but she found him terrifying. She hid it well. She stood straight, hands consciously relaxed by her side; her jaw was clenched so her lip would not tremble. It didn’t help that she imagined he was twice her height.  
“Through the _drain?_ And you believed the madman, you...” he let his mirthless boom of laughter die off with the rest of his sentence. He slapped a hand down on the table in front of him, a goblet rattling. Ruby did not jump.  
Raphael inhaled, air filling his bony frame. To Ruby it looked like his near-bald dark-skinned head was going to hit the ceiling. “Either way, a prisoner has escaped. This is unprecedented―” he remarked, raising his dark eyes to meet Ruby’s, and she bit the back of her lip, “―and it _will not be tolerated_. The Priestess will not allow this. _I_ will not allow this.”  
It soothed Ruby the tiniest amount to know that her superior would be blamed for this every bit as much as she would be, once the Priestess found out about the prisoner. _Sam._  
~  
Every bell in the castle began to ring, sounding out a message: A prisoner had escaped.  
On a grassy hill less than a half-mile from the edge of the citadel, a black horse waited, the rider atop its back sitting up straighter.  
Dean Winchester had waited more than five years to hear those bells.  
~  
Raphael waited impatiently outside the chapel. The sound of the bells was driving him to a point of irritation that he would not be able to stand for much longer. Despite this, he dreaded the moment when the High Priestess would walk out of her beloved chapel and speak with him. He would have to tell her about this so-called ‘Sam’, that wretch of a boy.  
At last, his wait was at an end. The wooden doors swung open with a clunk, and preceding the crowd, Priestess Masters strode out, her white robes shimmering with early afternoon sunlight. Her lip twitched as her eyes fell upon the Captain of the Guard, standing in the walkway. She went over to him, her cool voice warbling at him before she had even reached him. “I assume this is about that darn racket the entire castle has been making all day.” She hooked a slender hand over the stone rail that bordered the walkway and the central garden, where monks went about their business after midday service.  
“Yes, your Grace.” Raphael bowed his head and looked at his boots.  
“Tell me.”  
“A prisoner escaped. A young boy, a pickpocket. I have a witness who tells me he...” Raphael swallowed. “He escaped through a drain.”  
There was a moment of pause where the Priestess considered his words. “No-one _ever_ escapes from the dungeons of Zamreer,” she said calmly. “The people of this city know that, my dear Captain. It’s a historical fact.” She seemed to smile, eyes turning to the bright sky.  
“The responsibility is mine to bear,” said Raphael, saying what he dreaded saying.  
“Yes.” Priestess Masters agreed, a slight lilt in her voice.  
“It would be a miracle, ma’am, if the boy managed to escape our drainage system.”  
“Well,” the Priestess. “I believe in miracles,” she almost whispered, eyes slanted curiously toward the Captain. “I have no doubt that you do, too, Captain. No doubt―” she patted his upper arm, squeezing through the thick leather, “―at all.”  
“Yes, your Grace. He is, however... only a thief. He means nothing to us.” In an instant, Raphael knew he had said the wrong thing.  
“Great storms, my dear Captain, announce themselves with a simple breeze. A single, random spark,” she said, leaning in close to the Captain, her pale skin shimmering in the glow of daylight, “can ignite the fires of _rebellion_. We’ll be bathed in a city of blood in no time at all. Now,” she added, fingertip gracing over the leather front of Raphael’s armour, “We don’t want that, do we?”  
“No, your Grace. If he’s out there, we shall find him.”  
The Priestess smirked and nodded once. “And that’s where you’re right, Captain.” And then she held out the back of her hand for him to kiss; a dismissal. He bowed, touched his lips to her ringed finger, then backed away respectfully, before sweeping from the walkway and into the bright daylight.  
~  
“Get the horses ready. We ride immediately!”  
“Yes, sir,” Ruby affirmed, taking a longer stride to keep up with her much taller Captain across the dusty courtyard. “Where are we headed?”  
Raphael shook his head curtly. “He can’t have gotten far, he’s on foot. We’ll begin with the outer town, the nearby villages. Make his description known, let every man in the kingdom know who we are searching for. Put a price on his head. We kill him on sight. No man will ever think they can escape the prisons of this kingdom and live to tell the tale.”  
“Yes, sir.” Ruby nodded, never letting her hand leave the hilt of her sword at her side. The red leather scabbard slapped at her legs, but years of ignoring it had left her oblivious.  
“The man who apprehends the escapee will be brought to the personal attention of the Priestess,” Raphael continued. He had no doubt that a great reward lay in the capture of this infernal snake of a man. “Tell the men, however, that the one who lets him escape... shall suffer at my own hands. Go!”  
Ruby turned off toward the stables, rallying the Guard as she went.  
~  
Sam walked until the sun went down. It was amazing how easily he went unnoticed whenever he joined a crowd. He walked with the farmers returning home from the city market, adopted a fake limp, and covered his head with a shawl lifted from the back of a moving cart. The amount of mud that was smeared over him was not out of place among these people. One even offered him a burned rabbit for a few coins, an offer which he accepted gratefully. It was the first full meal he had eaten in days.  
He spent a lot of time talking to a family of three sisters with their grandfather. They came in every morning to sell bottles of perfume to the rich people in the city. They never made much money, but they were happy, and they were together. Sam watched them and was happy too. He yearned for a family, but he couldn’t stay with Ellen any longer, not after what happened last time. One day he’d find something, someone. That had been something he’d always planned to do, all of his life. He had so many plans that he hoped to one day fulfil, but in his heart he knew that almost none of them would come to pass.  
The Guard would be looking for him by now, probably. He wasn’t even sure. He wasn’t worth anything, he meant nothing to the Guard except another body bound for the gallows. He was just another pickpocket, out to ruin rich people’s lives by staying alive.  
As the evening turned cold, he left the road and huddled into his own arms, delving deep into some dry white grass and curling onto the ground, ready to sleep in only a moment. He fell into a dream that he promptly forgot upon waking the next morning, fresh dew having made a mask on his face during the night.  
He didn’t move to get up until he felt warm rays of sunlight on his skin; weak, but hopeful nonetheless. He brushed dew and grass off himself and then began his journey again, heading anywhere but the city, away from events and people and places that could possibly spell death. He had to avoid anyone in the Guard at all costs. That meant no main roads, no taverns - he’d have to catch his own food. Nothing he wasn’t used to.  
His first full day of freedom became a dark one, heavy clouds hanging low over the empty road, and low over his spirits. By late afternoon, an early-season mist had settled around him, clamping his thin clothes to his skin. He was so cold; his toes were numb, even in his boots. The boots, while tight, fit him adequately: they moulded to the shape of his foot as he trudged onward, and were soft enough as he dragged them over the hard ground. Miserably, this was little comfort.  
His arms cradled his body as he put one foot in front of another, no longer able to see the road through the mist. All was still and silent. At least, he said to Brother, he’d probably be able to hear any approaching horses.  
He could hear the rush of air as he breathed in and out, and made a game of huffing the mist away from his mouth as he exhaled. He had no idea where he was going. He only hoped he’d get there soon.  
As the day ended, he again slept by the side of the road, this time crumpled underneath an oak tree with lumpy roots that kept him awake half the night, digging into his back every time he turned over in his sleep. He would have moved, but nowhere else was sheltered enough when the rain started. It rained all of the next day, too.  
The days grew steadily colder, and the further north he went, the icier the road became. He skidded and stumbled for hours at a time, but never stopped.  
Occasionally a passing traveller would pass by in a horse-cart, or lag behind as he overtook them in stops and starts while they rested. His own resting periods became more frequent the colder he got, and he took much longer to recover. He sat shivering under trees, too tired to move to keep warm.  
Seven days of this, and he caved in. He was sick of setting traps for rabbits, sick of the cold, and the hard ground for a bed each night, sick of waking up with ice water making his face red and sore every morning, snow or frozen dew in his hair. Persistence was not really his thing, he realised, not when he was this cold and hungry.  
On the eighth day, when the sun set, grey and salmon pink, he sighed and kept walking through the night. He wasn’t stopping in the open tonight, he knew there was a village up ahead. He could rest there.  
“There’s blankets, Brother. Hot food, maybe a bath. I could go for turkey, you know? Haven’t had turkey for years. Not since that winter. You know the one I mean.” Sam trembled head to toe, but forced himself forward, step after step. His legs were locked tight with the chill, he could hardly bend them any more. “Forgotten what a full stomach feels like. I want something with cherries in it. An ale, some roast potatoes. And oh God, Brother. What I would give for a bed right now. A hot fire, one I don’t have to light myself with some stupidly damp bit of kindling. Oh - and there we go, speaking of light! There it is, the village. There’s a tavern... they always have a tavern. Every village. Wonder why that is... Ahh,” he sighed, huffing out a cloud of air. “Thank you, Brother.” He swallowed thickly, his saliva ice down his throat. “Freedom isn’t quite so lonely with you.”  
He turned the rocky path, heading straight for warmth and comfort. His stolen bag of money jangled happily against his thigh. It was one of the best sounds in the world, as far as Sam was concerned.  
And the rush of warm air as yellow light greeted him - that was the best feeling in the world. He stepped grandly inside the tavern, closing the door behind him. His face ran hot straight away, and he was acutely aware of how cold his nose and ears had gotten while he’d been outside. His hands clamped up as he tossed coins down onto the countertop, blood rushing in his ears as he ordered whatever food the tavern happened to be serving.  
He was barely paying attention - all that registered was the warmth that returned to his limbs, but slowly the buzz of clarity flooded back into his thoughts as he thawed out by the roaring fire. The place was nice: quaint, small, built solidly with rock and wood, artfully placed animal skins pinned across the walls.  
Sam took a seat at a wooden table while he waited for his food to arrive. He rested his damp boots on the table leg, and leaned back against the stone wall behind him. It held some residual heat from the room, and after a moment the warmth began to seep into his muscles.  
There were a few other people still around; it was only just dark, so he figured he would take his leave while everyone was still awake. He only had the energy to chew his meal, then he’d be dead to the world until the morning. The idea of a bed had never seemed so appealing. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the low rumble of chatter in the room overtake him for a moment.  
“―searching for over a week now, I heard they went right up north already...”  
“No way he’d get that far up on foot. I heard he stole a horse, right? One of the castle ones...”  
Sam took a few seconds to register the voices, but he resisted tensing up when he heard the men chattering. They were most definitely talking about him.  
So, the Guard were after him? A lowly thief? Sam was surprised, but his mind was too hazy to dwell.  
Other rumours were exchanged too, but he couldn't catch them all amongst the hubbub of the small room. The space was stuffy with wood smoke, and almost all sound seemed to be absorbed by the thick smog.  
He chanced cracking an eye open to scour the room for the source of the conversation. _There._ Two scruffy men, farmers perhaps, nattering over pints of ale. Maybe they’d seen the Guard out searching for him.  
He probably shouldn’t have stopped here. But he was too tired to worry. He closed his eyes again and focused his mind on the smell of roasting meat wafting in from the nearby kitchen.  
“―they’ll kill him straight away, I bet. I think he must’ve stolen something big, the Priestess’s sure got her underthings in a twist about this poor sod―”  
The man was cut off by a laugh from the other man, a hearty chuckle, and he promptly joined in. There was a clack, presumably their mugs of ale smashed together in a friendly toast to the High Priestess’ Holy Underthings, followed by the second man’s reply: “God bless that mongrel of a boy, though. Hell, if he can get out of there...” the man sighed, putting his ale back on the table with a thump. “Who knows, me ‘n the wife might get our boy back.”  
His friend sighed sympathetically. “Bry, we’ve been through this. He’s not coming back.”  
There was silence for a while, and Sam considered opening his eyes again, to take a peek at their faces, but then, “I know that,” the man named Bry replied, softly. Sam only just caught it through the crackle of the fire. “I know that, I know.”  
Sam swallowed, suddenly feeling a lot less warm. He was almost immediately distracted by the arrival of a plate of food - steaming wild turkey, roasted to perfection; a side of roughly chopped potato, drizzled with onion sauce; and lastly, a heap of unidentified brassica - he’d always hated brussels sprouts, but right now he was too hungry to care.  
He began wolfing the meal down before the innkeeper girl had even left the table. He smiled gratefully at her, a smile that was easily returned. She had warm brown eyes and blonde hair and curved, soft lips that filled him right back up with warmth. She sauntered back to the kitchen and returned a moment later to refill Bry’s friend’s pint with a friendly word.  
Sam watched her move as he ate; she was fully at home here. She seemed to radiate the warmth of the entire building, like the fire in the fireplace was also inside her, like the skins on the wall were part of her own skin.  
He wanted a place that bled into his own skin. He wanted a life in which he had no reason to be on edge, some place where he didn’t need to smile a fake smile to get what he wanted, no matter how like a second nature it was. He didn’t want to steal, he didn’t want to have to _take_ what he needed. He wanted a home. So, so badly.  
 _Brother, if you’re seeing this... ahh, what am I... heh, of course you are. Okay, this is awesome, all right? I want me one of these. Maybe not a tavern, just... someplace warm, even when it’s cold. Someplace special. And hell, maybe a real brother. Who talks back. For a figment of my imagination, you kind of suck at talking._  
Sam sighed as he chewed his turkey, wiping a dribble of juice from his chin with the back of his hand. Oh, he needed a shave. That had completely slipped his mind. He probably looked like a complete ruffian.  
He finished the rest of his meal, setting his unevenly-crafted cutlery down on the table, sitting still while he let his incredibly full stomach settle. He had rarely felt bliss like this. Heat burned his bones from the inside, contentment filled him from his belly outward. He smirked, and threw an extra handful of coins down on the table. Hey, he had the money, he was a generous guy - why not?  
With only a nod and gentle smile to the young innkeeper, he was led up to a small bedroom. It was warm, and there were no rocks or grass in his bed. He was so relieved to see this, that it only occurred to him later that that was not something people usually found in beds. Lice, maybe. Grass, not so much.  
He washed with water from the basin provided, then fell under the covers, imagining himself as a vole or a rat burrowing underground for the winter, hibernating underneath blankets until the morning came.  
~  
He awoke later than expected, as the morning was getting on a bit. It was probably almost midday. He’d have slept longer, but he had been disturbed by the raucous shouting that came from the tables outside. He fell out of bed and peered through a small crack in his window panel, and spied something that sent a chill of terror down his spine.  
There, in the warm sunlight, below a trellis of creeping vines, was a band of Guardsmen, sparring with their swords. He heard the sharp clash of metal as they fought - no, not fighting. Not for real. Playing.  
They were after him, he was certain. There was no other reason for them to be this far north. They’d probably gone all the way up, then turned around at border. The armour of these Guards belonged to the castle of Zamreer, and no other. There was a woman among them, Sam was interested to note. A petite brunette woman, arms folded as she observed the men fight each other. They were laughing, but she sat stony-faced, like she was uninterested and above such idle playfights.  
Sam crouched below the window and took stock of the men, sizing them up. The woman was under the watchful eye of a tall black-skinned man, who was clearly the Captain of the Guard. Sam would have known the curled golden insignia on the man’s shoulder anywhere. He’d grown up playing games where he fought the Captain valiantly, rushing at Bela with a stick in his hand. Bela always won, and perhaps that was the point. This man was known to be unbeatable.  
Sam took a steadying breath and leaned to peer out of the crack in the window shutter again, craning to see how many men there actually were. Six... seven... eight - and then the two who were clashing swords. That made ten Guards, all of whom were armed and undoubtedly dangerous. And they were all here for him.  
“Okay, okay...” Sam muttered at a whisper, nibbling the inside of his lip. He had to leave this place, and fast. A horse was the only option here. He’d never make it on foot. He had to head further north, back where the Guard had already searched. “Brother... oh dude, this is gonna be rough. I’m not looking forward to this.”  
Sam took a deep breath and stood up, turned away from the window, and went to examine his room. What did he have to use to his advantage? Weapons? Nope. Horse? Nope. He’d have to steal one, and preferably not one of the Guards’. They’d be onto him like a shot. Money? He touched the pouch tied to his hip. It jangled, but only half as much as it had last night. Okay, running low on funds. Semi-check, then. Clothes? Also semi-check. He had what he was already wearing: a thin grey-brown tunic and thoroughly worn and muddy goat-wool trousers. There was a slash in the left knee that he hadn’t noticed before. And boots. Good boots. He was still pleased about that.  
He spent half a minute searching the room for anything helpful: forgotten coins, a hidden knife, some rope - anything. His best find from this was a mouse skeleton, which frankly, he would have liked to stop and examine. He set it back down under the bed with a regretful sigh.  
“All right, Brother. Haven’t got much, but as you know - well, I have my wits, and helluva lot of that. Let’s do this.”  
And with that, he left the room empty, tiptoeing down the hallway. On a moment’s thought, he went back to close the door behind him. If anyone was looking, the scruffy young traveller named Sam was still asleep.  
Sunlight blazed through an unshuttered window that he passed on his way to the stairs. He paused to pick out a line of horses tethered to a horizontal pole. All but two of them carried the Guard insignia on their saddlebags. _Never been good with horses, Brother. This is probably the worst time of all to have that come to a head._  
He drifted down the staircase, keeping to the edge, where he knew it was less likely to creak. The scent of good food drifted into his nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He rolled his eyes upward with a sigh. _Don’t let it tempt me,_ he pleaded to himself. _Life over stomach. Life over stomach!_  
He stepped onto the ground floor without incident; the dining room was empty. He could still hear the muffled clash of swords and lively laughter coming through the front door that he’d come in through last night. Back entrance, maybe?  
Cautious, Sam edged toward the kitchen. He kept one eye on the front door, the other on the thin trickle of steam that floated in through the opening to the next room. He tried to keep out the flashbacks of sneaking into kitchens to steal food throughout his childhood, but it was impossible. The method was always the same: come in low through the doorway, hide behind the nearest tabletop and scoop something from whatever happened to be on the surface above you. If you wanted something fancy, it took far more skill and patience.  
As it was, he wasn’t after food. He just needed an exit. He slung through the doorway so low he was almost crawling, eyes up to watch the large, brown-jacketed man that hovered by a wide fire, copper pot rattling against his spoon. There, at the back! Bright light carved a rectangle on the stone ground by the doorway, and through the door was a flurry of green. He could see the tethered horses from here.  
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, hearing the quiet creak of his boots - now pleasantly dried out since last night. Just a few more steps―  
“Um. Can I help you?”  
Sam stopped in his tracks and looked up, startled to see the calm, round face of the innkeeper girl. She peered down at him curiously, evidently surprised to see him sneaking around her kitchen.  
“Uh,” Sam said. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping them half-bent, so he straightened up. He stood at least a head above this girl, and could see how the soft wave of her hair turned from blonde to brown at the roots.  
“We don’t serve lunch until it’s cooked, so if you’re after a rare steak or something... We do serve those, you know. Hell if I know why anyone would want one, but it’s there if you need it.”  
“I - no, I wasn’t - I was actually just headed for the―” he pointed at the doorway that led to freedom, glorious freedom. Well, as far as a tethered horse would get him. “Just wanna get home, wife’s lonely. Kid’s probably hungry and miserable. Misses his daddy, you know how it is.”  
The pretty girl smiled. She was probably his age, Sam figured. Damn his automatic lying, he just blew his chances with her. Fake wife and kid, that oughta do it. Not that he actually had any chance - wanted fugitive, and all that.  
“Hey, Daddy?” the girl called to the large man sweltering over the boiling copper pot. He turned around and jumped at the sight of a very tall, scruffy-looking man towering over his daughter.  
“Spare him a few scraps? For his kid, you know,” she told her father, winking to Sam. Sam couldn’t recall if he’d ever been winked at by a girl so pretty as this one before. It was a nice feeling.  
The old man grunted, shrugging with his bottom lip pushed out dismissively. He watched the girl reach for a scrap of cloth and a leg of lamb, before turning back to his cooking pot.  
Sam fidgeted, fingers itching to grab the bundle of food the girl was preparing for him, and run. Just bolt straight out the back door, untie a horse and valiantly swoop up upon its back, riding it out into the distance, faster and with far more grace than he knew he could ever achieve.  
Yet he waited patiently as the girl - no, _woman_ , for she had long passed the point in life where she was a child - collected scraps of food for him, meat and greenery alike. She was caring and glowed warm from the heart, and Sam would be damned if he didn’t say he was a little in love. She got him _food_ , for Heaven’s sakes. And if that wasn’t the way to Sam’s heart, he didn’t know what was. When times were tough, food was his first and foremost guiding light.  
“Hey, uh... what’s your name?”  
She beamed at him, placing a red, ripe apple on top of a half-loaf of bread. He hadn’t had bread in weeks. “Jess. What’s yours?”  
“Sam- Samnnnny.” _Crap._  
“Samny?”  
“...Yeah.”  
Jess grinned at him from behind a fringe of wavy hair. “Nice to meet you, Samny. You have a good, safe, trip now,” she said softly, handing him a tied-up armful of food, lumpy and tightly packed. He reached for his coin purse to pay her, but she waved him off. All Sam could do was nod gratefully, and make a beeline for the door. He took a deep breath before stepping out into the sunshine.  
He strode confidently toward the horses, keeping an eye out for the red cloaks of the Guard that he wanted to avoid so badly. When he saw nothing, only the bright haze of a pleasantly warm day, he quickened his steps and fell in between a black and a brown horse. He favoured the one that was brown all over, including a brown saddlebag. Almost everyone had a brown horse; it wouldn't stand out so much. All of the other horses were clearly Guard horses: two bay, a grey, a black, and a few chestnut, all dressed with a red saddlecloth emblazoned with gold stitching. If Sam hadn’t been so keen to get away, he’d have pinched at least one saddlecloth. Gold thread was worth a fortune in the right circles.  
He tossed the bundle of food onto the leather saddle, feeling the warmth of it, having been left in the sun. He fumbled with the reins, which were tangled around the pole to which the horses had been tethered. Nimble fingers were not something he was naturally blessed with; even for a thief he was often clumsy. “There!” he exclaimed, as he finally got the horse loose. It whinnied, pulling away from him with more strength that he’d have liked. He shot after it, feet stepping forward long after his torso had followed the horse backward. It nickered again, headbutting the horse to its left, which whinnied in protest.  
“Shh! _Shh!_ ” Sam urged, patting the black horse that had been disturbed. It had no intention of shushing. It seemed to trot on the spot, stomping its heavy hooves and pounding the dry earth, neighing like no other horse Sam had ever heard. It was like a scream, a siren.  
Sam shook his head, wide-eyed. “What, they give you Guard-horse lessons or something? Teach you how to be evil?” he muttered, attempting to secure his sensible brown horse. This horse also had no intention of coming quietly. It reared a foot off the ground, and Sam was so startled he almost dropped the reins and stumbled away in fright. He and horses were never going to be good pals.  
“Shh, whoa, whoa - calm it, horsie. Shh,” he whispered, trying to stroke its muzzle. If only he could climb up―  
“Is that him?” came a growl from the corner of the tavern, around which, the Guard were hidden from view. Sam looked past the jittery horse to see, with a jolt of terror, a muscular, unshaven man with the red crest of the Guard on his chest, and a half-unsheathed sword in his fist. A second man joined him, nodding, setting eyes on a suddenly shivering Sam.  
“That’s the boy - hey, _hey, Captain!_ ” the second man cried, calling back to the rest of the Guard. “He’s here!”  
“Nonononono,” Sam stammered, reaching desperately for the horse that then tried to kick him in the stomach. He narrowly avoided the blow, but also decided that kicking was the point at which he gave up on horses. He snatched the bundle of food from its back as he pelted toward the other side of the building, away from the Guardsmen.  
Once there, though, his only options lay with open road or thick, thick undergrowth - neither of which his racing mind thought he’d have much chance of getting through alive, not without immediate capture.  
He was just nearing the second corner of the tavern when he ran straight into wide open arms and a cruel grin that seemed to split the face of the man before him, cutting it into Angry Chin, and Evil Eyes And Pointy Nose. He gasped and tried to dodge the man. Unsurprisingly, Sam found himself bound by a pair of Very Strong Arms.  
“Let me go!” he grunted, scrabbling at thick leather with grubby fingernails. No, there was no escaping. He was almost carried by the arms around his waist to the front of the tavern, and he dropped his bag of food in his attempt to free himself from the man’s clutches.  
“Well, well,” came a deep voice that belonged to the Captain of the Guard. His dark skin in the sunlight made the whites of his eyes glow like the sun, framing dark pupils that bled into his skin, sharp like cat’s eyes. “We have our escapee - Sam, is it?” he asked the struggling Sam, lifting his chin to examine his face.  
“How do you even know what I look like?” he asked the Captain. He had been so ready to claim that no, he wasn’t the man they were looking for - but his tongue betrayed him yet again, with one of the million curious questions he held about the world. As it was, this was the question that bubbled to the surface.  
The Captain chuckled, a heavy noise that Sam would rather he’d never heard. There was no joy in it. Maybe pleasure, but it was a dark, bloody pleasure. This man liked to cause pain. “We have a cooperating witness, isn’t it always the way? Goes by the name of... _Rat_.”  
Sam grunted, knowing that recognition had flashed in his eyes. The Captain snarled, white teeth gleaming bright.  
“He seemed very happy to turn over your description... for a new pair of boots,” he added, turning his head to peer at Sam’s kicking legs. Sam had struck the man behind him countless times on the kneecap, to no avail. It was like he was made of steel. New boots be damned. Rat be damned.  
“So, how do you want to do this, boy?” the Captain asked him, sparing a glance for the rest of the Guard, who had begun to assemble around them. The Captain lunged forward and grabbed Sam by his long hair, dragging him out of his captor’s arms and toward the trellised area in front of the tavern. Sam stumbled on his own feet, his view of the world skewed as he was pulled sideways, painfully.  
His feet caught on loose vines twisting across the flagstones as they reached the garden. There were thigh-thick wooden poles every five feet or so, crossed at the top with a thatch of green vines that criss-crossed, hanging down like loose hairs.  
For a brief moment it crossed his mind that these were his last moments, and a pretty vine like that really wasn’t a bad thing to see as he closed his eyes for the last time. He also decided that he had had far more of these last-breath moments than he cared to have.  
The Captain let him go, shoving him violently toward a pole, and Sam narrowly missed whacking his head on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess, hovering in the tavern doorway with her hand clasped over her mouth. Sam swallowed, and straightened up. He was taller than all of the Guards, save the Captain, who held himself straight and confidently enough that he looked about twice the height he really was.  
“You don’t escape from our dungeon and get away with it, boy,” the Captain tossed at him, like it was a casual conversation about lunch. “You will pay, and everyone will know. _Nobody_ gets away from our dungeon... and _lives!_ ” With his last word, he jerked toward Sam with a speed that Sam matched in a heartbeat, dodging well out of the way and running for dear life. He was immediately surrounded on all sides by members of the Guard: big, hefty men, slighter men with swords raised toward him, and the tiny brunette woman who gazed at him with wide, determined eyes. He ducked their arms, swinging away from advancing swords - he slipped under tables and flew out the other side, disturbing chickens with a startled flurry of feathers. He gasped for breath as the Angry-Chin-Evil-Eyes-and-Pointy-Nosed man stepped into his view, blocking his path to the freedom of the open road. Sam didn’t spare a thought to where he’d go should he escape right now - but not dying would be a good start.  
“Brother!” Sam cried out, desperate. “Help me!”  
“Nobody’s coming for you,” laughed the Captain, sitting down at a table and letting his men run around after the nimble thief. “You’re alone, and you’re going to die alone.” The man rested his gauntlets on the table in front of him, blinking languidly in the sun. In the meantime, Sam swung himself up onto the trellis, avoiding a particularly vicious swing of a sword from a black-haired man with scars on both cheeks.  
Sam had nowhere to go from here, he realised. He crouched upon the wooden pole, trying his best not to crush the vine under his boots. He crab-stepped between the wooden bars, hopping over jabs from swords below. He was an arm’s length away from the hilt of the men’s swords, only just avoiding their stabs at his feet and hands as he clutched at the trellis.  
“Come down, Sam,” the Captain suggested, calmly. “You’re not going anywhere from up there.”  
Sam had no intention of coming down to die. But after a second of calculation, he leapt onto a table, then to the ground, seizing the sword from Guardswoman's scabbard, and raised it in front of him. He had no idea how to use a sword, but hey, they didn’t need to know that. The fact that it wobbled in his grip was probably unnoticeable.  
“Back up. I’m a trained killer,” Sam declared. The lie almost sounded believable, even to himself. ‘Almost’ was the keyword here. His words were met with nothing but laughter.  
“If you’re a trained killer, son, then I’m a trained circus lion.”  
“I’m not your _son_ ,” Sam spat, the point of the sword swinging between the Captain and the owner of the sword, who was advancing in starts. She was clearly not happy about being relieved of her only weapon. Her gaze darted frantically between the silver blade and Sam’s wide eyes, her lips pressed in a firm line. Sam swung the sword in a sharp, nervous arc, forcing her to back up a step. Sam stood his ground.  
“I’m not anyone’s son, and you’re not going to take me alive.”  
The Captain smirked, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s all right, Sam. We had no intention of letting you live.” And he waved a hand and ordered a single Guardsman to advance. The burliest of the lot took a hard step forward, out of the crowd of Guardsmen that had assembled around the Captain. Sam felt his feet back away from the man’s menacing gait. He suddenly felt a lot smaller than he was.  
The sword was useless now, he watched it being brushed out of the Guard’s way with only an idle swat of his hand. Sam's body flooded with an intense will to run, all the fight gone out of him. He backed up into a wooden pole, and felt vine leaves tickling his fingertips. The stolen sword swung limply at his side and his skull pressed up against the wood, his eyes on the blade that was being raised to his throat.  
He closed his eyes. He felt the slim edge of metal pressed cold to his neck, felt it scrape across his windpipe with a sharp line that dragged his skin, bristling against his stubble. The hot breath of the burly man danced on his shoulder, he felt it on his cheek. His breath smelt like wine. Sam swallowed, and braced himself for the end, as the Guard swung his arm back. In less than a second, Sam’s throat would be slit.  
He heard a whirr of moving air, and a yell. Sam’s eyes snapped open to see his would-be executor clutching his arm in pain, the shaft of an arrow embedded in his bicep. Sam tightened his grip on the sword in his hand. Every instinct told him to run, this was his chance - but his feet held firm.  
He turned his eyes into the sunlight, and there stood the source of his saving grace: a black-armoured man with a sharp-jawed face, crossbow raised to his chest.  
There came another whisper of air as a second arrow was launched - this one from one of the Guard, aimed at Sam’s rescuer. It hit a wooden pole harmlessly. In the same moment, a return arrow was fired. The Guardsman fell like a stone.  
Sam watched this exchange with shallow and uneven breath, clutching the pole behind him. “You,” the newcomer directed at Sam. “Out.” He gestured behind him with a jerk of his thumb. Sam didn’t think twice. He stumbled into the sunlight, taking the man’s crossbow as it was handed to him. The man was shorter than him, and far better built for battle. His armour was as well made as the Guards’.  
As soon as the Guard’s attention was sufficiently diverted, Sam ran. Nobody chased him.  
~  
Dean drew his sword. “Is that a sword in your hand or are you just happy to see me?” he asked the entire Guard. This was met with nothing but stunned faces. Dean shifted his weight distractingly. “Come on, _nothing?_ That should’ve gotten at least a chuckle. No? A snort maybe?”  
The Captain took a step toward him, sword by his side. Dean raised his own in defence.  
“Winchester,” the Captain said, not bothering to raise his own sword. “Not a smart move, Winchester. Returning. Not smart at all.”  
“Well, you know me, Raphael. I was never really known for being smart, now, was I?”  
The Captain bumped his eyebrows up then down, once, inclining his head. “I suppose not.”  
One of the Guards stepped forward, blade held in front of him like it was guiding his way. Dean Winchester smiled at the sight of a friendly face. “Gordon,” he chimed.  
“Never thought I’d see you back here, friend,” Gordon replied. He and Dean stood apart only the length of their outstretched swords, Gordon lowering his slowly. This was a mistake. The Captain leaned forward and kicked Gordon from behind. Gordon lost his balance and fell - plunging his chest onto Dean’s sword. Dean followed the dead weight down, crouching to the ground and withdrawing his sword desperately.  
“No... Gordon... Gor―” Dean breathed. Hopeless. He was dead. Dean looked up at the Captain with seething anger. In a second he had taken two strides across the sunlit deck, his tight fist connecting with the side of Raphael’s face with a crunch of knuckles and flesh and bone. The Captain flew back and collapsed into the arms of a Guardsman.  
And with that, the fight was ignited in the eyes of the other men, all swords raised with a swish of metal. Dean clutched his own bloody sword and swept from the trellised garden. He ran toward the inn, seeing no exit that wasn’t defended by a soldier. A beautiful blonde woman stood in the doorway, shaking her head. She signalled him to the left of the tavern, a subtle finger pointed from under her shawl. Dean sprinted over the grass, turning the corner with a swift salute to the woman. He could hear the clunk of heavy boots behind him. He ran faster.  
By the side of the tavern lay a pile of horse shoes, tied together by string. Dean seized it as he ran and twisted easily in mid-air, sending the whole handful cascading into the face of the man behind him. Dean watched, satisfied, as the man tumbled into the grass like a felled horse. A second man was stopped with as little effort: a speedy jab to the eyes with Dean’s gloved hand, and the man crumpled to his knees, yelling in pain.  
Dean's sword slid between the ribs of another two men, straight through their leather armour. Even the extra skin could not stop Dean's blade, cut like a steak. Dean straightened and took a breath, the second man sliding off his sword and rolling onto the grass. There were more men coming.  
“You won’t be able to run this time, Winchester,” an angry-faced man spat at him. Literally spat. Dean swept the spittle off his boot with a well-aimed kick to the man’s shins. The Guardsman buckled, and was then knocked out cold by the pommel of Dean’s sword to his temple.  
“Neither will you,” Dean said to the unconscious body. “Not for a while, anyway.”  
And then Dean kept running, turning the corner again and coming face-to-face with the kid he’d just rescued.  
“Here, I caught a horse! Get on, quick!” the tall boy offered, wriggling a set of reins at Dean, who didn’t slow down.  
“I already have a horse,” Dean said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Sam turned his head and watched the black-armoured man speed past him, sheathing his sword and snatching his crossbow from the dust, where Sam had dropped it to grab a horse. It took a second before Dean turned and yelled back to him, “Come _on!_ ”  
Sam grabbed his things from the ground, and ran after him, slapping his prized horse on the rear. It squealed, and stampeded into the remaining two guards who were chasing them. Sam turned to watch their fate as he ran, almost stumbling as he straightened to run off of the grass and onto the dirt road, a few strides behind the other man. His hands were full, still holding a sword - the Guardswoman’s. He had no idea how to carry a sword while running, especially one with no scabbard. He made do with holding it out to the side, blade pointed away from him. His other hand juggled the parcel of food, fingers twisting in the cloth.  
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Dean ordered Sam, slowing down and dragging a massive black horse out of the shrubbery. It chewed a mouthful of leaves, trotting round to stand on the road. Dean swung onto its back, settling the crossbow on his lap.  
Captain Raphael was on their trail, bearing down on them from atop a sturdy stallion. Sam couldn’t keep watching him as he ran alongside Dean’s horse, but out of the corner of his eye saw movement cut through the air above his head. He heard the screech of a bird of prey, and a shout and a thump, the unmistakable sound of a man falling from his mount.  
Sam kept pace with Dean’s trotting horse as it kicked up dust on the track. “Get on, dammit!” called the rider, offering a hand.  
“I can’t mount a moving horse, are you crazy? I can barely mount one of those practice fake kiddie horses, let alone one that’s standing still!”  
“Get on, or I make you get on.”  
“Make me then, since I can’t do it.”  
Dean rolled his eyes. Three seconds later, Sam was hefted by the back of his collar, still kicking as his legs tried to run - but he was in mid-air, choking on his own clothes - and then he was hoisted over the back of the hugest horse he ever knew existed, muscles solid as a rock moving under him as it sped to a gallop. Sam clutched the saddle at his side for dear life, his stomach clenched tight to keep himself from slipping. His legs were still in mid-air, his head over the other side of the horse, sword still wrapped in his hand as he tried not to stab the horse with it. He spent a surreal moment just watching the ground bouncing up and down as he bounced up and down with it.  
Then the dirt track turned to green as they turned off the path, heading into the bushes. Leaves whipped at Sam’s face, catching on his ankles and trying their very best to pull him off the horse. The rider held steady as branches lashed at them from all sides, and after Sam was sure a number of cuts had appeared on his face, they emerged into open woodland.  
Sam gasped, feeling like he’d just surfaced from yet another deep lake, breathing open air once again. It took several more minutes of directionless twisting, galloping through trees while aiming to lose the Guard, before they finally slowed. The gigantic black horse trotted to a halt on a flat expanse of dead leaves and dry peat, stopping and taking a single step backwards as it balanced itself. Sam dropped his sword and bag of food, and fell off the horse, tumbling to his knees like his whole body was boneless. He let out an exhausted sigh, feeling his stomach muscles trembling with relief.  
“Uhhhghhh... I hate horses,” Sam groaned, thighs twitching.  
“Hate is such a strong word, y’know?” Dean said, nimbly hopping off his mount and patting the animal on the side. “I’d say what you were feeling was more of a...” he glanced into the middle-distance and searched for a word, “mild, slightly bitter dislike.”  
“Whatever,” Sam said, sprawling out on the leaves and staring at the trees half-covering the sky. Pale blue showed through the canopy of light green, tiny specks of dust floating in the sunbeams. “Too tired to argue. Just don’t make me ride again.”  
“You wanna to walk the whole way?”  
“The whole way, where, exactly? I’m not headed in any direction except away from the Guard and towards food ‘n shelter.”  
“I see the two came hand-in-hand for you last night,” the rider observed, leaning his head into Sam’s view, blotting out the sky.  
“Yeah, well.” Sam looked down toward his chin. “My mistake.”  
Sam looked back up and watched the rider take his gloves off. He had short, light brown hair, and was a day away from clean-shaven. From what Sam had seen, he looked sturdy and driven, his movements very much like how Sam had observed the members of the Guard moving; like a soldier, precise and with power behind his actions. He held a pale hand down toward Sam, who took it and shook, back still flat against the leaves.  
“I’m Dean. Winchester.”  
“‘m Sam,” Sam replied, dropping his arm back to the earth heavily, letting it rest.  
“No last name?”  
“Not even a little one.”  
“Well that’s too bad. There’s more than enough Winchester to go around, since there’s just me.”  
“You got no family either, huh?” Sam said.  
Dean shook his head, pursing his lips. “There’s just me, and ol’ Chevy here - and - oh, here we go!” and then Dean broke his sentence off, distracted by a swooping movement that descended from the sky. Sam only saw a shadow, but sat up with a bolt, scrambling to his feet, alert.  
It was only a bird: a hawk. It came to perch on Dean’s left forearm, talons clasping around a leather protector he wore there.  
“Sam - meet Cas. Cas, this is Sam,” Dean said to the bird. Sam raised his eyebrows, leaning a hand on the horse as it stood there silently.  
“Uh... h- hi, Cas?” Sam said warily, not sure if he was meant to look at the hawk or at Dean, but Dean seemed pleased with this, and gently nudged the hawk back into the air with a thrust of his arm. The hawk spread its long, brown wings, each of them more than half the length of Dean’s arm. Then it took off, and Sam jaw dropped as it launched itself up with a single flap, circling the woodland clearing with a long drawn-out screech from its yellow beak, then flew high up into the trees and out to the open sky.  
“Huh. I’ve never seen one up so close before. Did you train it?”  
“Came ready-trained, I guess you could say,” Dean replied. Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye. The man’s gaze had tracked the bird like he’d wanted to follow it, flying free and easy. Sam didn’t blame him one iota.  
“Now,” Dean sighed, turning back to his horse, “come on, they’re still gonna be after us. They’re not gonna stop until they catch us. Let’s get a move on,” Dean said, climbing into his saddle, and the horse shifted its weight on heavy hooves. “Hand me that sword, would you?” Dean requested, gesturing to the dark-haired woman’s weapon, which lay discarded amongst the leaves. After a moment of consideration, Sam decided he could probably trust this Dean guy with his newly acquired sword. He had just saved his life, after all. He handed it to him, hilt first, and Dean leant over and tied it to the horse’s saddlebag.  
Sam chewed his cheek nervously, patting the horse’s flank and preparing to mount. “All right, horsie. Nice and slow now... good boy, good―”  
“ _Her_ name, is Chevy.”  
Sam paused for a moment, ducking down to peer at the horse’s underside. Oh, yes. Female horse.  
“Sorry,” Sam murmured, patting the horse’s hindquarters again. Dean snorted, and waited patiently as Sam fumbled about trying to climb up. Sam glared at him, as he offered no help at all. He just sat and stared at the trees, as if Sam’s grunts of effort and desperate grasps at the saddle and Dean’s clothing were merely the gentle breeze that washed through the clearing.  
On perhaps Sam’s tenth try, he managed to straddle Chevy’s immense hips, sliding forward on her silky coat until his thighs sat flush with the back of Dean’s saddle. Two fully grown men fit easily on this horse, she was so absolutely massive.  
Sam let out a breath of contentment, finally having achieved something today that didn’t involve almost getting killed. “Okay, let’s go.”  
“Oh, you’re giving the orders now, are you?” Dean asked, half-turning in his saddle to look at Sam, only just managing.  
“Uh. Wh- whenever you’re ready,” Sam corrected. Dean huffed, and squeezed Chevy’s sides with his boots. Sam grabbed Dean’s leather-clad hip as the horse began to move. Having only ridden the animal while sprawled over its back, sitting up and rocking with every step was a new sensation. It took a few minutes of getting used to, trotting under the trees, in and out of afternoon sunbeams.  
Oddly, riding Chevy felt natural, somehow. Sam had never ridden this smoothly. Perhaps it was because Dean was doing the actual riding; Sam was just a passenger. After a while, Sam almost began to feel that it was... comfortable.  
“So come on, spill. Why’d you rescue me?” Sam inquired. He was about to add “not that I needed rescuing”, but the fact of the matter was that he’d been in dire need of extrication.  
“You were putting out this whole ‘damsel in distress’ vibe, and as a knight sworn to service of the small and the weak, I couldn’t really ignore it.”  
Chevy made a small unsettling leap over a fallen log, effortless, despite her passengers. Sam clenched his hands tighter on Dean’s leather armour, satisfied by the creak it made. It was as sturdy as the horse herself.  
“I’m not small, and I’m not weak,” he said decidedly. Sure, he wasn’t the strongest of men, but as a person, he felt like he was made of something about as solid as Dean’s armour. Maybe with less dead cow in the mix. “I escaped the dungeons by myself, and I survived this long,” he added, less decided on that fact. He pretended not to hear the waver in his own voice.  
“Yeah, I know.”  
“Everybody knows though, right? I’m a wanted criminal now?”  
Dean gave no answer, but it was clear to Sam that he was going to be hunted down no matter what.  
Dean turned his head a slight to ask, “What did you even do? Other than escape, I mean.”  
Sam huffed. “I stole some money. Which they then confiscated. Pretty sure the guy that took it off me kept it, so I don’t see how that’s any better.”  
Dean snorted amusement back at him, switching his horse’s reins to his other hand. They kept on trotting, seemingly in no direction in particular. Dean turned Chevy every five minutes or so, going whichever way had fewer overhanging branches. Mostly they covered semi-open spaces with a few trees here and there, leaves falling around them. It was serene, Sam thought. Gold and green passed by with no sound but the clopping of hooves on soft earth, and the rush of a breeze in the late autumn fall.  
It was some time before Sam ventured another query; this Dean person didn’t seem prone to starting them himself. “What’s _your_ story?” Sam asked, scrutinising the back of Dean’s head. “The Guard know you. How come they hate you?”  
Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face, but the older man was silent for a while, pensive. “It’s... a long story, kid. I was a Guardsman, but I’m not any more.”  
“They kicked you out,” Sam speculated.  
“Pretty much, yeah. Well―” Dean seemed about to correct himself, but decided against it. “If you’re wondering if you can trust me... You hate the Guard, they’re the ones that caught you?”  
“And the ones that hurt and bully and beat down everyone who’s not as rich, or as well-trained, or as close to the High Priestess as them? Yeah, they’re not hard to hate.”  
“An enemy of an enemy is a friend, right, so...” Dean put forward, spreading a hand in front of him. He turned it and patted his horse, easing her on through a creek. Sam felt the cool splash of fresh water on his trousers, and tapped Dean on the shoulder. He asked if they could stop, and they did.  
Dean refilled his pigskin sacks, holding them under the surface of the water and watching them inflate. When Sam wandered off to relieve himself, Dean yelled at him not to wander off. Sam yelled right back.  
Sam didn’t linger on how easily they bantered, how easily he had trusted Dean. Dean had suggested that Sam might not trust him, but honestly, that was the first time it had even crossed Sam’s mind that he shouldn’t. It was natural and... _easy_. There wasn’t a moment out of place, like they fitted together.  
When Sam returned, Dean was petting the hawk that perched on his arm. It truly was a magnificent creature; curved yellow beak and sharp blue eyes that felt like they cut right through Sam when the bird twisted its head to look at him. He scooped a drink of the stream with cupped hands, watching the hawk intently.  
“Hey, shh, shh,” Dean whispered to it, biting the glove of the hand he had been petting with, pulling it free. He stroked with his bare hand, the bird calm and indifferent to Sam once again. “Cas doesn’t usually meet new people,” Dean said through his glove held in his teeth.  
“Can I touch...?”  
Dean gave a nod and Sam approached, drying his hands on his clothes. He reached up gingerly, not entirely confident that the thing wouldn’t try and chew his fingers off. Forget chew, that beak would slice through fingers like butter.  
Sam touched feather with his fingertips, and immediately relaxed. They were soft as silk, so soft he could hardly feel them. If he pressed very lightly, he could only register its presence by the warmth that seemed to envelop anything that came in contact with the bird's feathers.  
The bird swivelled its head to look at Sam again as he caressed its back, but didn’t stare as harshly as before. It didn’t seem to blink, even when Sam took its gaze as a challenge.  
A moment later, the hawk was pulled away as Dean laughed, petting the beast once more before letting it fly off, strong and mighty. “Man, your face when you were staring,” he wheezed, eyes crinkled at the edges.  
Sam felt his mouth turn up at the sides, a rare kind of responsive smile that he felt the need to prod at with the pad of his thumb. It felt nice to smile like that.  
“Cas stares at most people like that,” Dean continued, quietly lost in thought. He mounted Chevy again, who shuffled on the spot, shifting their weight. Dean held out a hand to Sam, who took it and climbed up too, almost a cinch to do this time round. “Actually, that’s... that’s not true. People Cas _likes_.”  
“So I haven’t made an enemy of the scary bird. Good to know.”  
Dean laughed again.  
~  
They next stopped beside a wide, shallow river, where Dean swung his leg over his horse’s head and dismounted. Sam followed after a moment, wobbling on tired legs. Chevy leant down to take a drink, Dean did the same, then meandered into the bushes for a minute. When he came back, he rinsed his hands and pulled his gloves back on, then held out an open palm to Sam, who paused with his mouth halfway to a cobbled-together sandwich of dry turkey, cheese, and a couple of misshapen lumps of bread.  
“You don’t have any food of your own?” Sam asked, handing Dean a chunk of his turkey and the apple anyway.  
“I usually catch what I eat. Can’t really afford to start a fire right now, with people after us and all,” Dean said, scraping up a mouthful of meat with his teeth. “And I don’t eat apples, kid.” He threw the apple back to Sam, who caught it and bit it, still between a mouthful of bread and cheese. He was so very hungry.  
“Why not? It’s food.”  
“‘s rabbit food. Horse food. No human should eat that. You know what, give it to Chevy. She could use a treat.”  
“But - I―” Sam stuttered, cradling the apple in his palm.  
Dean’s face broke into a grin, shaking his head slightly. “Heh, whatever. Keep it. You might grow another pair of legs and then I could give Chevy a break. Two men is a lot for that girl, even one as tough as she is.” He looked over at his horse fondly, as she splashed her hooves back and forth through the river. The droplets washed over her middle, drip-drip-dripping off into the gentle current. Her sheer black pelt gleamed in the dappled sunlight, and Sam thought, yes, she was a very beautiful horse.  
~  
They only rode for a couple more hours before Dean began to get antsy. Sam was sure they’d lost the Guard on their tail with their wandering, but Dean was fidgeting, tapping his foot on Chevy’s saddle distractedly - which confused the horse, Sam noted. They’d twitch off a straight path for a few steps before Dean yanked the reins back gently, correcting her wandering gait. Dean glanced around constantly, like he was looking for something.  
Even after Dean’s bird came swift and silent out of the sky, perching on his arm, Dean didn’t settle. He seemed to be sniffing the air, breathing deeply, and sitting up in his saddle to see further ahead. It took about another hour before Dean ground out, “Oh, finally.”  
They were still in the middle of nowhere, light woodland sprawled on all sides. It took a moment before smoke wandered into Sam’s line of vision, white-yellow and drifting up through the tree canopy.  
“Someone lives out here?” he said, surprised. It was so far from... well, _anywhere_.  
“Would seem so.”  
“It’s still light, we could ride on. Few hours of daylight left.”  
“Quit yammering, we’re staying here tonight.”  
They trotted onward, a wooden shack looming up out of the haze of dry sunbeams and dust. Chevy slowed as they neared, with no instruction from Dean at all. The heavy hoofbeats fell on harder ground, turning from leaf-strewn peat to compact damp earth. It had rained here recently.  
There were several buildings, as it turned out: a two-storey barn that seemed to be built out of sticks; an animal skin stretched over a frame, used as a water collector and full to the brim; and a second stone house from which a huffing red-faced woman scurried out, hitching up her skirts.  
“This is my place, you are unwelcome! Unwelcome here!” she screeched, heavy brows curling down the middle of her forehead as she approached. Dean pulled his horse to a stop, not yet dismounting. The woman hefted an axe in her hand, an easy weight for her.  
Dean spoke in the most polite tone of voice that Sam had heard from him yet. “Afternoon, my lady. My comrade in arms and I need lodging for the night―”  
“No, no place for you here,” the woman interrupted, blunt. She drew her bottom lip up and stuck her chin out.  
“We’ll pay, of course,” Dean added. Sam watched as the woman’s thick shoulders sank back down from their defensive posture and her eyes glanced down Dean’s side, sizing him up. Her eyes then turned to Sam, and he felt her glare burning him, right down to his boots. His toes tingled uncomfortably.  
The woman _hmm_ ’ed. She put her non-axe-wielding hand up to her chin, cupping it with a finger pointed along her chin.  
Sam figured he should help things along, and pulled out his stolen money purse, showing it to the woman so she could see they weren’t lying about the paying. He shook it so it jangled. “We’re - uh - not above compassion, for those in misery,” he assured, trying for Dean’s tone of voice. Dean turned in his saddle to look at Sam, perhaps questioningly, and Sam shrugged.  
The red-faced woman tugged on her shawl, narrowing her eyes, and gave a single nod. Sam felt Dean relax in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed how tense the man had gotten.  
“You sleep down there, in the barn,” the woman said, pointing to the ramshackle wooden building made of sticks. Dean thanked her, and nudged Chevy onward. Sam could feel the woman’s stare on his back as they moved away. When he turned back to look, he saw her heading back inside her house, taking the axe with her.  
Dean pulled Chevy to a stop right by the barn, letting Sam dismount first. Sam crumpled to a crouch, knees weak from riding. He hadn’t even felt that strain on the back of his legs until just now. Even those days he’d been walking constantly, it never ached all at once like this. He huffed with exertion as he straightened back up, Dean dismounting beside him. His bird still had its talons curled into his forearm. Beady blue eyes locked onto Sam’s, and for a few moments, they were engaged in another staring competition. Then Dean pulled away, slipping inside the lower level of the barn - this part covered completely in hay across all the walls as insulation.  
Sam followed, stopping at the half-door, like a door in a saloon, through which Dean went. Sam paused at a ladder leading to the loft, certain that this was where they parted ways, possibly for the rest of the day and night, and that Dean would want his privacy. He climbed the ladder, feeling a breeze ruffle his long hair. Up here, there were floorboards, dry and almost white with dust in the middle, brown and muddy towards the edges. The whole upper level was open to the elements, thick branches tethered to the edge of the boards, only useful to stop someone falling off the side. There was a haybale-layered roof, steepled just high enough that Sam’s head brushed its peak when he stood on the platform.  
Sam surveyed the view from between the sticks: a weakly-burning, smoking fire, left unattended in a rock-sheltered cavern, the building that the axe-wielding woman lived in, and a few other smaller, one-storey shelters, with livestock milling around and geese trampling happily through a muddy puddle. Sam took in a deep breath, refreshed by the smell of civilisation, however barren an example. It had been a long day.  
He patted his chin. God, he needed to shave. His beard - for it was a beard now, no longer a mess of stubble and fuzzy shadow - seemed to have overtaken most of his face. He’d never had it this long. Then again, he’d never been this far from a bowl of water and a sharp knife.  
~  
Dean sighed. He hung his saddle bag from a hook, removing the net that usually held hay for the horses. He unbuckled the bag, smoothing down the leather flap with the tips of his gloved fingers. With his one hand he withdrew his battle helmet; the other palm fell into dark blue cloth of soft linen. He bunched it in a fist and drew it out, slow, like it was fragile; it dangled limp from his hand. His brow creased as he considered it. His lips drew into a line, and he swallowed.  
He dropped the helmet to the floor, where it rattled and lay still in the dirt. The cloth, he pulled into with two hands, slipping it in his palms, cradling it with his fingertips. It was still as stunning a blue as ever. Blue like the twilight sky.  
“Uh - Dean?” came a quiet call from the other side of the wooden door. “Sir, are you there?”  
Dean smirked at being called ‘sir’ again. It had been too long. “It’s just Dean, kid,” he called back, coming to the door to peer up at the boy Sam.  
“In that case, my name is Sam. Not _kid_.”  
“Did you want something, Sammy?” Dean replied, still smirking. “Or are you just here to pester me?”  
Sam pulled his face into an irked expression. “Do you have a knife? That I can shave with?”  
Dean considered Sam’s facial hair. “The peach fuzz kinda suits you, don’t you th―”  
“Can I have a knife? Please?”  
Dean snorted. “Sure. I want this back in the morning, you got it?” he said, tugging a curve-bladed dagger from his belt and passing it over the door, handle toward Sam. Sam took it, turning it once in his hand before tucking it into his own belt.  
“Thanks. Oh, and uh, if there’s nothing you need me for tonight, I think I’ll turn in.”  
“You can tend to my horse,” Dean said straight away. Sam nodded, turning to where Chevy stood just outside the barn. “And sleep with one eye open, Sam. Don’t ever believe you’re safe. Not out here.”  
Sam didn’t look back at him, but he nodded again, patting Chevy on the rear as he approached.  
“And don’t disturb me, I keep a sword by me - I’m gonna cut your throat before I know it’s you,” Dean warned, pushing his door open and following to make sure Sam got his instructions.  
Sam nodded once more.  
“All right,” Dean said softly. The hawk watched him from the ladder, where he petted it once before retiring back to his barn. The bird continued to watch as Sam led Chevy to the water trough, where fresh rainwater rippled in the slight breeze.  
Sam smoothed the horse down as she drank, wrapping his sleeve around his hand to wipe the thin layer of sweat from her shoulders. She snorted into her drink, splashing droplets over the side of the basin. Sam sat down beside her on the edge of the trough, cupping water in his hands to wet his face. The water was on the icy side of cold, and Sam could just about see his reflection in the wobbling surface. The sun was about to go down now, and he stopped to watch the golden-orange light filter through auburn and barely-green leaves. It truly was remarkable that Sam had made it through another day. He had barely considered it at the time, but sunsets like this one were another thing that Sam would have missed about being alive.  
~  
Dean pressed the blue linen to his face, breathing it in. Its proper scent was long gone, smelling only of leather and days gone by. Its softness was still a comfort, no matter how small. Small comforts were the only kind left for him, now.  
Dean blinked as gold flickered at the corner of his eye. He turned, and through the hatched wood of the barn wall, split into strips of bright, warm light, was the setting sun. As Dean let it slip over his face, he could feel it stroking his skin like a taunt.  
“One... day,” he breathed, throat tight. It was a promise.  
As the darkness followed the light, he felt the coldness of night envelop him. He was chilled so quickly, his eyes widened in surprise. It was always a surprise. A terrible, cruel surprise.  
~  
Sam meant to sleep, but floorboards, no matter how sheltered, were not comfortable to sleep on after a long day’s ride. He climbed down the ladder, where the hawk was perched no longer. Two trips to the lower level of the barn later, and his floorboards were stacked with a heap of loose hay, prickly and foul-smelling, but better to sleep on. But still he tossed and turned. Too cold, he decided. He climbed back down and headed for the fire out in the clearing, a wisp of smoke curling from its surrounding cavern. On a moment’s consideration, he turned back to untie the stolen sword from Chevy’s pack, his and Dean’s things piled up against the inside of the barn. Dean’s little knife on his belt wouldn’t do much to protect him. He didn’t intend to get close enough to an enemy to use it.  
The night was chilly, dark blue in the rapidly falling night. A owl hooted in the distance, met with a reply hoot from the other side of the clearing. The trees were much sparser here, one young birch hanging over the rockface that curved around where the fire was silently smouldering. Sam crouched next to it, breathing in the blunt breath of smoke. There was a mess of ash, a few red embers sizzling against burnt-out logs. Sam figured he might as well get it going again, he could stand guard or something, and there was no need to be cold. He threw the sticks that sat around him into the embers, hearing them fizzle, a puff of golden sparks drifting upward. He needed more firewood.  
He sighed and stood up, stretching his fingers over the hilt of his sword. There was a strip of leather wound around the handle, giving him a good grip. It was quite reassuring, to have a weapon.  
With a glance toward the barn door, lost among shadow, Sam made his way away, towards the denser forest. Once he was deep enough into the forest that the ground was littered completely with branches, he began to collect. He held his sword under his arm awkwardly, piling pokey wood in his hands until it tickled his freshly-shaved chin.  
“Brother,” Sam whispered, relaxing as he said the name. “A lot’s happened since we spoke last time,” he said with a tiny smile. “I’m uh, well, I guess I’m still alive. There’s this...” Sam frowned. “There’s this guy. He saved my life.” Sam stopped picking up branches, leaning back against a tree. It was almost too dark to see now. “Now I’m travelling with him, I guess. He never said why he saved me, he just - just went ahead and did it.” Sam turned his words over in his mind.  
He took a breath, about to speak, but stopped, still frowning. Then he took another breath, and continued: “He wants something from me, Brother, but,” Sam huffed, “hell if I know what it is. He's got me fetching and carrying, but if that's what he wants from me, he'd be better off with a slave.” Sam knew that was harsh, and brushing the horse down was really very meagre compensation for Dean’s kindness. If kindness was all it was.  
He began to pick up twigs again, weighing them down with heavier sticks so they wouldn’t spring away from him. “Well, whatever he wants me for... I’m not going to do it. How do I even know if I can trust him? Really, I mean?” Sam stopped and straightened again. “He seems nice enough, I guess. We get along, easy like.  
“But, he’s part of the Guard, or he was, or something. He didn’t even tell me. He’s obviously hiding something,” he reasoned, shaking his head. “I’m young, Brother. I’ve got... _prospects_. Kind of? As much as a wanted thief can have. I’m no better with him than without him, am I, Brother?”  
Sam pushed his bottom lip upward in a decisive manner. “Nope.” Sam threw all the sticks to the ground. “I don’t need him, I’ve always survived on my own. I have a sword, I can learn how to use it. I won’t get caught again, not this time. I’m off.” Sam laughed. “Just you and me again, Brothe―”  
A twig snapped a distance behind Sam, close enough to be _close_ , far enough for Sam to know it wasn’t he who broke it. A chill twisted down his spine, and for a moment he considered that he was overreacting; it was clearly just a rabbit, or a ferret, or whatever kind of animal roamed around in the night.  
A growl touched his ears.  
Wolf. Wolves roam around at night.  
Sam’s breath hitched, heart fluttering, loud enough that he couldn’t use his ears properly to hear any give-away signs of danger. Serious flaw in human design there, Sam thought.  
Another growl, he heard it loud and clear. Another twig snapped. It wasn’t hunting him, he knew that. If a wolf was hunting him, he’d never have heard it. It was warning him, letting him know it was there, watching him. Sam had never felt more watched in his life. He couldn’t see anything more than a foot in front of him; there were leaves all around him, shimmering grey-blue in the moonlight.  
He let out a sharp breath as he heard the rustle of fur. If it was close enough for him to hear that - it was far too close, Sam decided.  
“I’m armed,” Sam gasped out. He had no idea what made him say that; the wolf wouldn’t understand. “I have a sword, and I know how to use it. I do, I know how to stab things. Stabbing’s easy.” His voice shook like the leaves in the breeze.  
He held the sword in front of him, hips swaying to balance him with his feet apart. Sweaty hands adjusted his grip on the hilt. There came another growl, closer this time. In a flash of moonlight, Sam was sure he saw a glint of teeth.  
He didn’t spend another second considering whether he did, in fact, see teeth. He fled, sword in hand, grip loosened by trembling, cold fingers; adrenaline making everything weak but his legs as they pushed him forward, away, away!  
He realised a second after he entered the clearing with the gently burning fire, that he’d run back right the way he’d come, back to Dean Winchester, back to the hawk and the horse and the crazy woman with the axe in the house. His eyes were wide with fear, and he slipped on a muddy bank as he sprinted toward the open clearing, turning quickly to check where the wolf was.  
He saw nothing, just undergrowth and claw-like branches, dark and shadowy.  
Just as he let out a sharp breath of relief, he came face-to-face with a raised axe, and a maddened, greedy face with a heavy brow, arms up and ready for a down-swing. Sam dodged the killing blow, hearing the _schick_ as it sliced into damp earth. And then a flurry of movement, a black shape rushed into the woman’s moon-pale face - a scream of pain, of death, hit Sam’s ears and he reeled back in shock, running, _running_ , straight to the barn. He burst in, flailing around desperately, hands clasping at the air for help, for a weapon, anything!  
“Wolf!” he cried, gasping for air. “Dean! Wolf! _Wolf!_ ”  
Dean was nowhere to be seen, the barn was deserted.  
Sam had dropped his sword before he’d meant to, somewhere between the wolf jumping at his attacker, and the barn, but his eyes fell upon Dean’s crossbow propped against a pole, and he grasped it in shaking fingers.  
With a smash he pushed back through the saloon half-door, huffing out, “Wolf, wolf!” more to himself than anyone else. He hitched the heavy wooden crossbow up on the stick-tied grill that lay between the barn and the scuffle of dark bodies out in the open courtyard. Fur and teeth were flashing fast and angry, the woman felled and the wolf at her throat, tearing.  
Sam steadied the crossbow and pulled the string back - but it was hardly a string, more like a line of force to be reckoned with. He struggled to hook it back, to latch it so he could nock an arrow. Finally it hooked, and his knees were trembling, seeing the wolf ravaging the now most-certainly dead woman with its teeth in the edge of his sight. He looked about for an arrow, and realised he’d spilled them all on the floor in his hurry to shoot the wolf. He snatched one up, breathing heavily and swallowing furiously. His heart was racing, beating so hard in his throat that it hurt.  
It took some consideration to realise that the pointy end had to be facing the wolf for this to work, and he knew he was probably meant to do something with the tail feathers on the arrow. Clumsily he managed to set everything straight, and hunched down to align the arrow with his eye, aiming it for the wolf. It continued to scramble at the dead woman’s throat, like it was angry or there was something there that it wanted. He wasn’t eating her, he was just... killing her. Still. Without end.  
Sam cleared his mind, let the arrow point straight. Now, to fire―  
A slim, pale hand snatched the arrow from the crossbow. Sam followed the movement back with his eyes, not even thinking until his tracking gaze met a startling blue; another person, a black robe around them, over their head and over their face, only their eyes visible. A woman’s eyes, the brightest blue Sam had ever seen. She was about a head shorter than Sam, with a gaze as fierce as Dean’s hawk. She raised a slender finger to her covered lips and breathed through the cloth, shushing.  
It was like all the panic went out of Sam. He felt drained and calm, and he could think clearly, finally. The woman pulled away from him, craning to see the wolf out in the clearing, the sound of the creature growling and blood rumbling deep in its throat. Sam could hear the wet click of its jaws from here. He knew it was just his imagination, but he fancied he could smell the blood from here too.  
The cloaked woman stepped into the clearing, head turned up to see out from under her dark hood. Sam could see the hint of her cheekbones, high, somewhere between round and pointed. The rest of her face was hidden, cast in shadow beneath the cloth. Sam cursed the cloth, for surely the rest of her face would be as beautiful as her eyes.  
Sam panted, letting some air back to his brain. He hurried after the hooded figure as she took a few more steps out of the shelter. “Don’t go out there, th- there’s a wolf! A huge, massive wolf - the biggest wolf - an-and a dead woman!”  
She stopped. She turned back, blue eyes seeming to glow like the moon was shining right at them. “I know,” she whispered, soft and gentle, like anything louder would break the still of the night. As if the ferocious snarl of the beast out there hadn’t broken it enough.  
And she turned away and kept on walking, straight across the moonlit expanse of fallen leaves and pat-down earth, cloak billowing gently in her wake. Sam clung to the sticks of the barn, knuckles turning white in fear for the woman’s life. She must be insane to go out like that, but Sam was too scared to follow her. Far too scared.  
She made straight for the wolf. Sam whispered to himself on her behalf, begging her to come back to safety. He made several attempts to go after her as she got further away, but every time was held back by his own feet refusing to move. His eyes widened as she reached the lumpen shadow of the fallen body, and he made ready to turn his head down to keep himself from watching her die, expecting teeth at her throat in a second.  
But - no? She held a hand out to the wolf, as if in greeting. It looked up from the dead body for the first time, blood shiny on its black fur, only a shade darker in the moonlight. It let her touch its head, and as she moved past it, into the forest, it turned to follow her. It held back at her heels, like a trained dog. Like a pet.  
It wasn’t possible to train a wild wolf. And the woman, where did she come from? It was like magic, like a dream.  
“I’m dreaming, this is a dream,” Sam said out loud. He hardly recognised his own voice.  
“Yes, you’re dreaming. Dream on,” came the whisper of the woman, still turned away, voice echoing in the silence, carried back to him by the breeze. Her voice was dulcet, round and whole, even as a whisper.  
Sam gaped. He shook his head slowly. The dark cloak and the wolf vanished into the woodland, swallowed by shimmering leaves and branches. Sam was left alone with the dead body, no Dean, no hawk. The horse was still there; he had turned to check. He put a hand to his head in awe, head reeling.  
“Brother, I did not just see the things I just saw. That didn’t just happen. Didn’t happen. I’m dreaming. Any minute now, I’m gonna wake up, and I’m―” he gasped for shallow breaths - “gonna be somewhere else, with normal people and normal thieves and normal wolves that don’t behave like―”  
A howl filled the air like a song, chilling Sam through every bone, like he was freezing from the inside out with terror. He yelped and scrambled for the ladder to the loft, grappling it with his feet, clinging to its rungs and climbing for dear life. It rocked and swayed in his rush, but he crawled up into the higher level of the barn and dived into his pile of hay, breathing in the dirt like it was the one sensible thing in the world.  
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” he chanted to himself. He lost track of how far the moon’s shadows drifted across the floorboards before he fell asleep, but the terror faded to exhaustion, and sleep swooped down upon him like a graceful hawk, with the most dazzling blue eyes...  
~  
As the light of dawn crept into Sam’s drafty little room, the air warmed a slight and Sam shifted in his sleep. He began to dream. His mind filled with teeth and wings and startling blue that turned to blood-red, seeping through a woman’s eye in a tear and a scream. A drop of blood slipped from the smooth skin of her cheek, falling, tumbling, and hit a grave with a splash―  
Sam woke with a start.  
His hands gripped his hay bedding tightly, boots scrabbling and leaving dust trails on the floorboards under him. He took several calming breaths, taking in the haybale ceiling above him, a streak of sunlight touching the sticks that made up the other walls. He turned to look out of the side behind him, seeing a black shape crouched in the courtyard: Dean Winchester.  
Sam ran out to see him, almost falling off the ladder in his haste.  
“Dean!” Sam approached, footsteps slowing as he got closer and saw Dean was squatted near a fresh grave. Sam’s stolen sword was plunged into the dirt at the head of the grave, the cross-guard across the length essentially turning it into a headstone. The grave was in the same place that the axe woman had fallen last night.  
Sam stopped next to Dean, who hadn’t moved. Dean looked up at him with a strained expression, and Sam almost considered that Dean had been crying; his eyes seemed watery and slightly red.  
“Thank God you’re - I thought _you_ ―”  
“You didn’t dig this?” Sam asked, frowning. Dean shook his head but didn’t elaborate.  
“Who is it?” Dean asked him.  
Sam tightened his jaw. “The woman who let us stay here. Th- there was a wolf.”  
Dean groaned and cradled his face in his hands. His balance wavered and he fell backward into a sitting position.  
“I don’t understand, where _were_ you? I called for you, I was shouting, there was screaming, you weren’t―”  
“I slept through it.” Dean let out a slow breath into his hands, then let his hands drop to his thighs with a slap. “Let’s go.” And with that, Dean stood, snatching the sword from its place and handing it grip-first to Sam. “Don’t lose this.” Sam nodded, watching Dean turn his back and head for his horse, untying her.  
Without another word, they moved on. It was some time before they stopped to catch a rabbit, Dean setting traps in silence, only muttering instructions to Sam to get firewood. They could risk a fire right now, they were deep undercover, and the wood was dry. Sam tried his best to keep the smoke at a minimum, made sure the fire was burning hot before he put on the meat. Dean ate in silence too, avoiding Sam’s gaze.  
Close to midday, Sam had been thinking about how far into the trees they were now, how directionless it all seemed. He couldn’t tell if Dean knew where he was headed or not.  
They were walking with Dean ahead, Sam hanging back and holding onto Chevy’s reins. When Sam’s feet started aching, he said to himself, he’d get back on the horse and ride solo for once. But his feet weren’t that tired just yet.  
Sam stared at the back of Dean’s head for a while before he decided to brave it, asking, “When are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”  
Dean, still in his armour, dropped his head to his breastplate, and Sam heard a quiet _thup_ as his chin touched the leather. “Eventually.”  
“Is that ‘soon’ eventually, or ‘never’ eventually?”  
Dean sighed. “Soon, I hope. You don’t know enough yet.”  
“So, tell me.”  
“Soon.”  
Sam ground his teeth and kept walking. A mist was descending through the trees, carrying in with a light wind.  
Dean piped up a few seconds later, “Tell me what happened last night.”  
Sam paused. “Uh. There was a wolf, in the woods. Growling at me. And I ran back―”  
“What were you doing in the woods?”  
“Getting firewood?”  
“Don’t wander off, Sam. Especially at night,” Dean growled at him.  
Sam swallowed, then continued, “I came back... and the axe-woman, she - she was going to kill me―”  
“Serves you right for waving your money around yesterday, that wasn’t exactly smart. Greedy people exist, even this far out here. And as a thief? Heh, you should probably know that.”  
Sam willed himself to stay calm and not snap at Dean. Clearly he wasn’t doing enough to meet Dean’s standards, but he was still alive, wasn’t he?  
“ _Anyway_. This _wolf_ , it jumped at her, went straight for her throat.” Sam kicked at a pebble as he walked past, it kept to his toe for a few paces before leaping away. “It saved my life, I guess. Went for her, but, it left me alone.”  
Sam could almost hear Dean smirking.  
The mist very quickly got too thick to see through, and Dean held up a hand for his horse to stop, and Sam stopped with her. “This weather ain’t good for travelling. Rest here a bit.”  
Sam tied the horse to a thin tree, and slid his back down it. Dean went to his saddlebag and pulled out a black travelling cloak, which he wrapped around himself. It was long and thick, but just thin enough that it would be good in summer as well. Sam watched the swish of it enviously, before he realised Dean was tossing him a cloak too: a woollen brown one, much thicker, but far shorter. Sam stood to slip it over his head. It was more of a poncho, really.  
He slid back down his tree and hugged his knees to his chest. Dean’s bird came to perch on Dean’s arm as he sat on a rock.  
“There’s more,” Sam said suddenly. He buried his nose in the cloth on his grubby knees, trying to keep it warm. “There was a woman. A different woman. Like... pale sand on a beach, with these - these intense blue eyes, almost like your bird’s.”  
“A woman?”  
Sam nodded. “And her voice, it was―” Sam broke off to huff at his own ridiculousness. “Like the whisper of an angel.”  
“She spoke?” Dean seemed to sit up straighter, the hood of his cloak falling back as his attention focused fully on Sam. “What’d she say?”  
“I asked her if I was dreaming, and she... she said I was.”  
Dean smiled and looked at his lap, where he’d put his sword when he sat down. Sam was certain he heard a quiet chuckle.  
“I’m not insane, you gotta believe me. I swear this happened, she was real.” It was a far cry from what he’d thought last night, but one night of thought was often enough to change Sam’s mind. Perhaps he’d spent too long trying to convince himself it wasn’t true and crossed his own mind in the process.  
“I do believe you,” Dean said, voice low, honest. “ _Hell_ , I believe you. I believe in dreams,” he said, nodding slightly.  
Sam huffed. “Uh huh,” he said, not really sure at all. Right then, of all moments, he noticed that Dean's eyes were green, a shade greener than his own green-hazel.  
Dean grinned, the first proper smile Sam had seen on the man’s face. “This... lady. Did she perhaps have a name?”  
“Not that she mentioned. Why?”  
Dean’s smile turned wistful as he answered: “Well, she, uh, sometimes wanders into _my_ dreams.” He looked down at his lap again, and if Sam wasn’t mistaken, Dean looked almost shy. Then he looked up at his bird, raising his arm so he was looking at it at eye level. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if I could call her by name, and pretend that we’d met before?”  
Dean’s hawk chirped at him and looked away, completely indifferent to Dean’s words. Sam felt a little out of his depth. There was clearly something going on here that Dean wasn’t telling Sam. Besides the whole in-the-middle-of-the-woods thing, of course.  
Dean continued, voice soft. “I’ve waited a long time, you know? For... her.”  
Sam wasn’t sure how Dean managed it, but his smile became sad. It must have been subtle, because Sam never noticed the transition, and suddenly Dean looked like the lost, lonely man that he undoubtedly was.  
“Are you going to tell me the story, or...?” Sam implored. “Because seriously, I’m pretty clueless over here.”  
Dean looked over at Sam, slumped against his tree with his arms wound around his legs. He considered Sam for a long time, long enough that Sam felt uncomfortable.  
“Just, hang on one minute, okay?” Dean said to Sam, holding up a finger. He stood with a creak of leather, taking the bird with him and walking a short distance away, just far enough that Sam couldn’t hear what he was saying. To the bird. He was talking to the bird.  
~  
“He thinks you’re a girl. Man, how’d you even pull that off? That’s crazy, Cas.”  
The bird said nothing, but Dean petted him on the neck, stroking down air-soft feathers, resistance only from a firm bed of muscles under the layer of brown.  
“Should I tell him?” Dean asked. One side of his face screwed up in self-questioning, half of his mouth bunching up. “I could probably keep the girl thing going, yeah? He doesn’t have to know, right? Not yet, I mean.”  
The hawk gazed at Dean with a severely unimpressed look. Dean found he took comfort in that, somehow. He nodded. “Okay then. We’ll tell him. The, uh, edited version.”  
~  
“Have a nice chat with your feathered friend there?” Sam asked, grinning at Dean’s determined expression as he returned, bird still in hand. From where Sam sat, said feathered friend hadn’t seemed very responsive.  
“Yeah, thanks.” Dean sat down on his rock again. “We decided I’m gonna tell you the story. From the start.”  
“Thank God, I was starting to think I was gonna be sitting in the dark till kingdom come,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. He buried his nose back in his poncho, smelling leather and horses. He couldn’t help but add, “Which story is this, what’re you gonna tell me?”  
“Uh, well. It’s kinda long, and it’s about how - how me and that woman of yours last night met. The first time.”  
“You know her?”  
Dean only nodded.  
“Somewhere in this, are you gonna tell me where we’re headed?”  
Dean licked his lips, tongue darting out for a split second. “Eventually. Like I said, it’s a long story.”  
Sam sighed through his nose. “Fine. Whatever. Tell me.” He wrapped his hands over his thighs and waited for Dean to start.  
Dean let out a long, long breath, looking at his hawk as he did so. “All right.”  
~x~  
Dean leaned back on his bench and laughed, his shoulders against the stone wall. The red-headed woman named Anna sat to his left, a mug of lager cradled in her curled palms. She grinned along with him, slender chin jutted out in amusement.  
“Man, how come he always gets the girls?” Dean asked, leaning forward and taking a swig of his own drink, still rather astounded at the sight before him. Gabriel was on the other side of the tavern, his arm around not one, but two young women, one of whom was stroking his hair. As Gabriel ushered them to an empty table, Dean set his mug back down, licking amber liquid from his lip. It was bitter, but not awful. He put up with it.  
“I heard Gina putting about that Gabriel was better in bed than you are.”  
“The hell?” Dean spat, gazing at Anna with startled wide eyes. _Nobody_ was as good as he was.  
“Well, it’s half true, right?”  
Dean narrowed his eyes at her, seething into his mug as he took another sip. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never slept with him.”  
Anna snorted into her own drink, spraying froth on the table. She hiccoughed and straightened up, grinning still. “Becky told you.”  
“Becky has a bigger mouth than you’d imagine.”  
“...Ew.”  
Dean hummed and winked at Anna, leaning back again, one hand around his mug. “I’m kidding. I may be the best, most awesome human member of the Guard, but if I went anywhere near Becky, Chuck would―”  
“―Take your head off before you could swear, yeah, I know. He’s scary for a little dude.”  
Dean paused and looked toward the tavern entrance, where a gangly teenage boy had breezed in the door along with a fierce gust of late spring night air. “Speaking of scary,” muttered Dean, pointing subtly toward another table nearer the door, where another group of Guardsmen sat. Raphael, Uriel, Virgil, Walt, and Roy.  
Anna turned to watch. The boy’s fall was not gainly. He landed sprawled over half of the floor between the Guardsmen’s table and the bar. Roy’s foot casually withdrew from the aisle, making no effort to hide the fact that he’d tripped him. A rumble of laughter came from the table, and the boy sat up, blushing, rubbing at his knees.  
Dean’s stomach lurched, all the laughter long since gone out of him. He shook his head in pity, catching the same expression on Anna’s face as she turned back to him.  
“Hey, kid,” Dean called to the boy, waving him over. The boy looked warily at him, eyes darting back to the table he’d been tripped at, but made his way over to Dean. He limped slightly. Upon seeing this, Virgil pointed it out and the taunting laughter began again.  
The boy stood in front of Dean’s table, shifting from foot to foot, clearly keen to get away.  
“Don’t be scared, we won’t hurt you,” Anna said, calm. She looked the dark-haired kid in the eye, and he swallowed before relaxing.  
“What’s your name?” Dean asked him, ignoring the mocking voices from the other table.  
“Charl- uh, Rat,” the boy said, softly.  
“You looking to be a fighter, Rat?”  
~x~  
“Whoa, hey!” Sam cried, unapologetic when Dean turned to glare at him. “I met that Rat guy, he was guarding my cell when I escaped. He gave me his boots,” Sam said, grinning. He held up a leg, showing Dean the simple brown leather with caked mud all over the bottom.  
“Really? A prison guard?”  
“Yeah,” Sam replied, nodding. He huffed into his hands to keep them warm; the mist was still thick around them.  
“I didn’t think...” Dean muttered, eyes wandering into the distance. “Well that’s better than being on Raphael’s team, anyway.” Dean sighed, a frosty cloud of air puffing out in front of him. “All right,” Dean started, steeling himself for the rest of the story. “So I said, ‘You looking to be a fighter, Rat?’...”  
~x~  
Rat shook his head roughly, a movement that was copied exaggeratedly by the men at the other table. Rat glanced over, nervous, but Dean waved his gaze back. “Hey, ignore them, they suck.”  
Dean saw a glimpse of a smile at the edge of the boy’s lips at that. He saw Anna smile in response out of the corner of his vision. “What are you lookin’ to do when you’re grown up?” Dean asked him, willing the boy to look him in the eye.  
“Dad’s a blacksmith,” Rat mumbled, eyes on the corner of their table.  
“Do you want to be a blacksmith too?”  
Rat hesitated. “‘m good with the metal.”  
“Did someone tell you that, or did you work it out yourself?”  
Rat swallowed, eyeline inching up a bit. He seemed to be examining the Guard insignia on Dean’s breastplate. “Myself.”  
“You good with a sword?”  
Rat nodded once, enthusiastically, gaze fixing instantly to Dean’s. “Almost took my brother’s hand off, he said I wasn’t bad. He’s... he’s in the Guard,” he added, voice turned down in shame at the last part.  
“Who’s your brother?”  
Rat swallowed. He fixed his gaze on Dean’s eye again, stared him down as he said, “Walt.”  
“Oh.”  
“Holy _crap_ , Walt’s an ass,” Anna hissed under her breath. She clenched her jaw and swallowed the last dregs of her lager. She pushed herself out of their table stall, and Dean thought she was headed to pick a bone with Walt, but she only marched up to the bar and demanded Becky pour her another drink. She didn’t come back.  
Dean nodded his head sideways to Rat, indicating he should sit. He slid into the bench to the left of Dean, facing toward the door and the other table. He let out a shaky breath as he realised the other men had lost interest in him and had gone back to their drinks and their own conversations.  
“Don’t let him make an idiot out of you, okay? If you’ve got the skill, you damn well use it. Learn to fight, learn to beat him. Get one up on him. He’s your brother, and he shouldn’t treat you like that. Look, I know he’s an ass, but it’s not my place to fix your family problems. I don’t even have the power to take him down properly when we’re practising together, either,” Dean lamented. “I ain’t Captain, nothin’ even close.”  
“Walt told me Captain Rufus is stepping down though,” Rat said.  
Dean nodded. “There’s trials for Captain in a couple days. Fight us against one another, see who comes out on top. Priestess will pick his replacement herself.”  
“You’ll win, right?” Rat asked him, eyes pleading. Dean gave a sad smile, heart wringing itself at the confidence of a stranger. It wouldn’t be the first time.  
“Chances are, I’m up against Raphael.”  
“Fallen angel.”  
“Yeah.”  
“They have, like, superpowers, right?”  
Dean smiled. “Pretty much. But I dunno. As far as a human goes, I’m...” Dean sighed. Then nodded at the table. “I’m goddamn friggin’ awesome.”  
Rat almost laughed, a quiet bubble of a thing. Dean caught his eye and smiled in return.  
“Here.” Dean slid the last half of his drink across the table, watched Rat’s eyes light up. Without another word, Rat took it and drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he belched, and Dean was reminded of the happy squeals of well-fed pigs. His eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “Go on, scram,” he muttered, nodding back to the door. Rat beamed at him, getting up to leave.  
“I hope you win, sir,” Rat said, pausing beside Dean. Dean turned to watch him leave. The door clacked as it closed behind him, and Dean got up to join Anna at the bar.  
“Talking about me?” Dean asked the girls, sidling up to the chest-high panel and hooking an elbow over it.  
“You presume too much, Winchester,” Anna scolded him. “But, yes.”  
“I was just telling Anna how nice it would be to have someone keep a rein on those foul creatures,” Becky declared, head tipped down to the bar, wiping with a cloth. “All you Guard folk. You come in here, you scare my other patrons away, your big fancy armour and your _nasty_ habits, I’m still in half a mind to―”  
Gabriel leaned over the bar at the other end of the room, calling for a refill. Becky glared at him, marching over to snatch his mug and fill it from the barrel tap. Anna and Dean couldn’t hear what she said to him, but from what they saw, Becky continued her complaint to Gabriel, who over the course of six seconds saw his face fall from gleeful and more than slightly drunk, to wholeheartedly miserable. Becky left him standing with a mug of lager and a sour expression, before turning back to Anna and Dean like she’d never left.  
“And another thing, that Balthazar of yours! All the terrible things he did to our Bessy, I mean sure, she was doing worse things right back, but that’s not the point, the point is that―”  
“We get your point, Becky, we do,” Anna assured her, reaching over the bar to pat Becky’s hand. “The Guard is in dire need of new management. We’re working on it.”  
“Drinking lager at all hours of the night is not my idea of working,” Becky replied, stony-faced.  
Anna narrowed her eyes. “Try telling that to Chuck.”  
“You leave him out of this, he’s an _artist_.”  
“And that excuses him, does it?”  
“If he could hold a sword without chopping one of his own fingers off, I’d be happy to lend him to the Guard.”  
Dean cut in with a nod. “‘s true. Remember last time, with the grappling hook?”  
Anna stared at Dean for a couple of seconds before her memory kicked in and she winced visibly. “Fair enough.”  
Becky snorted. “Are we done? Please. I have work to be doing.” As she spoke, Raphael approached the bar and flicked a finger as if that alone would conjure another drink. Becky glared at him, mettlesome as a wildcat. She refilled his mug, surely muttering abuse inside her head.  
The tall man flicked his eyes over to Dean and fixed him with a cold stare before he went back to his table. Dean felt a pang of hopelessness steal over him; he was beyond evenly matched, even in a fair fight where the fallen angel could not use his powers. But since he had the power, Raphael was allowed to use it. That was how it worked.  
Anna pulled Dean back to their table, slumping down on one of the benches.  
Dean looked up. “Practice tomorrow morning?”  
“Of course. Eight?”  
“Make it seven. And throw in a punchbag session.”  
“You’re sure? You don’t want to throw your hand out again.”  
“‘m sure,” Dean said, nodding. “I need to win this. Rufus found enlightenment or whatever―”  
“True calling.”  
“―Whatever, but the church ain’t gonna win us the battles, you know?” Dean put a weary hand to his head. “If Raphael takes over, there won’t be a single human left in the Guard. Roy and Walt, even. I guess he likes them, but I don’t think he’s really capable of loyalty.” He spat the last word like a mockery.  
“What’s the problem with an all-angel Guard, exactly? No offence, but we’re better than you.”  
“None taken. And the point is, think about it, you really want Raphael taking all your drills every day, giving you actual orders, that you actually have to obey? You really think his stance on killing people that don’t matter is really as strict as mine?”  
Anna put an elbow on the table and sank her chin into her palm. “You have a point.”  
“Won’t be much different from Heaven, I’ll bet.”  
“Told you already, don’t remember Heaven. And quit asking, none of us remember.”  
“Worth a shot, right?”  
“No.”  
Dean smirked anyway, clapping his palms down on the tabletop. “Come on, I have to sleep, unlike you.”  
“Do the things I tell you about fallen angels just _fall out of your ears?_ We sleep, Dean. Just not as much as you filthy mud monkeys.”  
“Whatever.”  
~  
Dean was practising at least two hours before everyone else, Anna by his side. Gabriel turned up first, dark circles under his eyes and an idiotic smile on his face.  
“Two girls, _at once_ , can you beat _that_ , Winchester?”  
“I’m too busy to try, Gabe. You could try it, you know. Practising for once.”  
“Nah, seems too much like hard work,” Gabriel replied, flicking two fingers in a sideways movement and sending Dean’s punchbag racing through the dust toward Dean. Dean spent all of ten seconds dodging it as Gabriel chased him, running his fingers through the air like a pair of legs. And then Dean fell flat on his face, punchbag stilled by his feet, innocent and inanimate. Dean snorted into the ground, flipping himself to his feet using only his hands. He slapped his hands and sent cascades of dusty sand whispering back to the ground. “Dick.”  
“Don’t you know it.”  
Anna swung her sword around distractedly. “Come on, quit it Gabe. We have actual things to do.”  
“All right, fine. I’ll play your game, just this once. We’re here to beat old Raffie to the punch, right? ‘cause all angels are dicks, and all that?”  
“Don’t I know it.”  
“And clearly you’re the best thing on offer,” Gabriel drawled, pretending he was unimpressed with Dean, but everyone present knew for a fact that in a fight to the death, Dean would win. He always did, when it was life and death. However, Rufus’ Captain-selection fight was not going to be to the death. That would be silly. There was no need to lose the second-best Guardsman just for the right to call oneself Captain.  
“Damn right I am,” Dean asserted, taking his sword from his scabbard and swinging it in circles either side of him with his wrist blurring in a figure-of-eight. Gabriel leaned against the off-white castle wall, cast in morning shadow, picking up a wooden shield from the pile on the other side of the dusty courtyard with a slight gesture of his hand. Dean kept on swinging his sword, faster and fiercer, as the shield floated through the air. Eyes trained on the shield, Dean paced around it, like he and the shield were each a cat, stalking and circling their enemy before attacking. The shield was the first to move; Dean knocked it a few inches back with a firm thwack to its top rim.  
“Ooh, you bruised me,” Gabriel called from the shadows. Anna plonked herself down cross-legged in the sunshine, expecting a show. Her faded blood-red armour crumpled from her slouch.  
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Dean grinned, lunging toward the hovering wood. A sharp swipe of his sword made the shield spin and bob. It swung pathetically, slowing to a stop before Dean attacked again - one, two, three jabs, the point of Dean’s sword denting, taking a chunk out of, and finally snapping one panel on the shield. Anna cheered from the sidelines, two fists raised and shaking gleefully.  
“Ha-ha!” Dean jeered, not stopping to celebrate but moving to attack again - but was then knocked backward by a thrust of flat wood into his chest. Dean jerked himself towards the curved rectangle menacingly, taking tiny steps forward like a hungry bird approaching an outstretched hand. “Huh? _Huh?_ You want a piece of me?” Dean laughed, springing into sudden action and raining down blow upon blow onto the splintering wood. Before Gabriel could even hope to advance another inch with the shield, Dean turned and took out the airborne javelin that had been flying towards the back of his head. It snapped in half, tumbling to the ground and bouncing once in the dirt. A couple more stabs, and the shield came apart in the air, its two remaining panels splitting down the middle and collapsing to the floor, ‘dead’.  
Dean glanced up at Gabriel as he emerged from the shadows, clapping his hands slowly. His cheeky expression suited his pudgy cheeks and short playful vessel perfectly. Dean never got how fallen angels ended up with a human body suit that fitted the kind of ‘person’ they were. Not that angels were people. Waves of celestial intent, or something. Whatever Anna had said.  
“You know that whole ironic slow-clap thing gets old pretty fast, Gabe,” Dean jibed, one eyebrow cocked.  
“I’m somewhat new to being human, I’m allowed to pick up annoying habits like the rest of you disgusting bilge rats.”  
“Annnd, back to the insults. Okay, can we do the sword thing now?” Dean directed at Anna, who had come to join them in the centre of the courtyard. She waved a hand and the debris of shield and javelin came back together fully reformed, floating back to the pile that they came from.  
“Only if you don’t cut me this time, you know how tiring healing is.”  
“Yeah, well it’s tiring for the rest of us bilge rats too, so suck it up. In a fight you’re gonna get a few nicks and cuts, or worse, and you have to power through it, all right?” He patted Anna on the side of the arm, nodding to Gabriel as he retreated back to the shadows to watch.  
Anna stood in a fighting stance, sword raised with the hilt to eye level, staring at Dean down the blade. It wasn’t the best way to hold a defensive sword, but the fact that Anna could move the weapon simply by thinking about it, gave her the sort of advantage that a slightly different pose wouldn’t particularly help. If Anna was comfortable holding the sword like that, Dean didn’t really care. So long as she didn’t get killed.  
He was about to lunge, to make the first move, before he stopped, realising Anna’s eyes had left his and she had dropped her sword to her side.  
“What―”  
“Hey Castiel!” Anna called, head turned into the sunlight, hand raised against the clear spring sun behind the castle. Dean frowned deeply. He had almost stabbed her in the ear. Anna distracted him with enthusiastic waving and a small laugh, a tiny bounce on her toes.  
“Anna, what are you―”  
“Dean, say hi!” Anna muttered to Dean, who dropped his fight stance helplessly.  
Raising his hand over his eyes, Dean looked up where Anna was looking, to a window in the side of the chalky castle wall high above them, where perched a pale man dressed in white. He sat to one side, his torso and half his body and thigh against the sides of the hole in the wall, peering down at them with a rapt expression on his face. He had dark hair, and on the whole, he looked very strange. He said nothing, but stretched up five fingers in greeting, hand never leaving his lap.  
“That’s Castiel, he’s one of us too.”  
“An angel?”  
“ _Fallen_ angel, yeah.”  
“He’s not a fighter like the rest of you? Weird.”  
Gabriel had sauntered over to join Dean and Anna, also pressing a hand to his eyes and raising an open palm in a wave to this Castiel person.  
“High Priestess doesn’t want him fighting, she likes him too much or something,” he said, shrugging at Dean. Gabriel then lost interest and skulked back to the castle wall.  
Dean shrugged too, dropping his shoulders and swinging his sword in preparation for a fight again. Anna swept hers up as well, clashing their blades together gently. Dean moved forward in an instant, brushing Anna’s sword out of his path like it was a blade of grass.  
“Hang on, I wasn’t ready,” she complained, batting away his attack swipes determinedly.  
“Exactly. You need to be, even if you’re not.”  
“That doesn’t make se―”  
“It makes perfect sense, dumbass. Always be prepared for a fight, or you end up stabbed or beheaded before you know what hit you.” Dean parried blows swiftly and sharply, driving Anna backward across the courtyard. He began to pace sideways, and her footing was less sure when she couldn’t see what was behind her.  
“You have angel mojo, use it, use it!” he instructed, snatching his sword at her midriff, catching gently on her leather armour to make a point.  
“I can’t concentrate on two things at once!”  
“I thought women were meant to be good at that sort of thing!”  
“I’m not a woman, I’m an angel!”  
“ _Fallen_ angel, in a woman vessel, which makes you a woman. Am I missing something?”  
Anna sighed, trying her best not to lose her balance as Dean drove her in dizzying circles. “You men are no better at any one thing than any woman, and vice versa.”  
“You can’t pee standing up.”  
“You sure about that?” Anna quirked, grinning at him. Dean lost his resolve then, just for a second - and then Anna’s sword was at his throat, and he stumbled a step back in shock. Anna beamed at him. “And not an ounce of angel mojo was used. Womanly wiles, pure and simple.”  
“That was cheating.”  
“Use what I have, right?”  
Dean clenched his jaw. “Right.”  
“Very impressive,” crooned Gabriel from the corner. “Bet you couldn’t do it blindfolded.”  
“I could,” Anna said, half her face pulled into a grin. “Poor Dean here has no angel mojo to see through cloth with.”  
“You’re cheats, the lot of you,” Dean said, swiping the air and gesturing to the fallen angels, the one perched in the window, also.  
“Born and bred, my good man,” Gabriel agreed, tapping his leather-armoured chest above his heart with an open palm.  
~  
As Dean finished up that morning’s training, it was hard not to notice that the angel, the one named Castiel, had continued to watch them. As the sun rose higher in the sky, and as he was putting away the last of the equipment (by hand, of course – he wasn’t about to let Gabriel mess up his system for perhaps the fiftieth time), Dean didn’t even have to shield his eyes to see the white-clothed figure posed around the window.  
Dean pretended not to be looking, but the angel apparently felt no shame in staring blatantly. One of his legs was still hooked over the edge of the window ledge, the other bent at the knee with his foot pressed to the opposite side. He looked relaxed, despite the firm set of his shoulders, and it took about five minutes of pointedly not-looking before Dean realised the angel’s head turned to follow him as he trudged across the courtyard with his arms full of spare leather armour.  
Dean glanced toward Gabriel and Anna, where they were in conversation with Balthazar, who clearly had only just decided to show up. Dean rolled his eyes, dumped the dusty breastplates in a pile next to the shin pads, and made his way over, unbuckling his own armour from the hips as he went.  
“You’re late,” he observed, when he was within earshot of Balthazar and his pretentiously spiky blonde hair.  
“And fashionably so,” Balthazar called back, cutting short his discussion with the other angels. “Hope I didn’t miss anything nasty.”  
“Only the part where Anna beat Dean’s ass to the ground,” Gabriel chipped in, grinning at Dean. “And don’t be modest, Anna. You know that’s the first time any of us have beat him in practice in months. Not that we don’t kick your ass _every_ day, just this time was more ass-kicky than usual,” he said, to Anna and then Dean. Balthazar patted Anna on the back in congratulations. She punched him on the shoulder and Balthazar recoiled, with a very pointed “ow!”  
Dean slipped his armour over his head and folded it, sighing at the sudden full-body lightness he felt without that heavy second skin. His black linen undershirt was crumpled and unevenly sweaty, and it felt very pleasant to finally let it breathe.  
“I bet you’re feeling top form now, Balthazar, what with all the extra rest you’ve been taking recently,” Dean snarked, enjoying Balthazar’s irritated grimace. He was sure Balthazar was about to reply with something about how Dean wasn’t Captain just yet, and had no right to make such remarks, when everything was interrupted by a shrill startled shriek from Anna, right in his ear.  
Dean saw straight away what made her cry out: the angel dressed in white had literally jumped out of the window and was plummeting to the ground like a bird down shot out of the sky. It was all over in a second, and Dean wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been a sudden boom of sound, a thunderclap. The angel had stilled a couple of feet off the ground, like he’d hit the ocean and was slowed by the water, arms out to his sides, face down. Then he’d stepped down out of the air and placed a bare foot on the white sand of the courtyard, straightened up and walked calmly towards the group of open-mouthed onlookers.  
The stunned silence was broken by a cheerful, “Cassie boy! Nice to see you up and about, thought you’d died in there,” from Balthazar, who strode toward the newcomer with an open arm to wrap around him, dragging him by the back of the shoulders to see Dean and Anna.  
“I’m pleased to inform you that I am in fact still alive,” came the reply, and Dean was still on edge enough that for a moment he wasn’t sure the voice came out of the right mouth.  
The face was pale and serene, free of all the shadows and scars that years of hard life, hard fighting and general experience gave a person. The voice was unusual. It was like a regular man was parched of thirst and had gargled with gravel, before screaming to within a moment of death. It was the strangest voice that Dean had heard, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.  
Balthazar kept talking. “Well, like Dean said, I still have practising to do, so uh, let’s see, Gabe, Anna, how about a round with the Balthazator?”  
Gabriel’s face drew taut as he made his expression as disapproving as possible. “Your swordwork’s not the only thing that needs a lot of improvement, friend,” he said, clutching his angel brother by the shoulder and steering him toward the practice equipment. With a quick turn back, Gabriel called to Dean, “Castiel, meet Dean. Dean, Castiel. Dayenu!” Anna shrugged at Dean and followed them.  
“Die-a-what now?” Dean’s brow furrowed at the last minute’s turn of events, and he rubbed at his forehead with his fingertips. His day was usually a lot more straightforward than this. The angel had opened his mouth, undoubtedly to inform Dean what ‘dayenu’ meant, but Dean had already brushed past, stalking swiftly to the corner of the courtyard, through the white alabaster stone arch that led to a small, sunny court, a cranny of space between the training area and some other part of the castle.  
“Wait,” came the voice again, and Dean was forced to stop simply because he felt like the voice had grabbed him with a pair of hands and stilled him as he walked. He was just beyond the archway, white walls on all sides and a small fountain ahead of him. He turned and smiled weakly at the face that approached him, a man around the same age as him, perhaps a year or two older. Not that Dean could be sure, as the man’s whole demeanour screamed innocence. It was bound to knock years off anyone’s age.  
“I am Castiel,” the man said, and Dean nodded.  
“Yeah, I know. You don’t train with the other angels, there a reason for that?”  
“Fallen angels,” Castiel corrected him, not moving his head.  
Dean shifted his armour to the other hand and waited for an answer.  
Castiel pressed his lips into a line, eyes glancing to one side. “The Priestess would rather I didn’t injure myself.”  
“You can heal, though, right?”  
Castiel inclined his head in a nod, eyes locked to Dean’s. They were a ferocious blue, the kind of vivid colour that only angels seemed capable of having.  
“So, what, you’re too valuable or something? Or are you just incapable?” Dean wasn’t sure where the pique came from, but there was something about shirking duties completely that was significantly more annoying than Gabriel or Balthazar’s lack of consistency in training.  
Dean’s armour thudded to the floor as Castiel angel mojo’d Dean’s sword from the scabbard on his belt and pressed the blade to his throat, sharpened edge stuttering over his Adam’s apple. Castiel glared at him with such intensity that Dean felt his stomach twist, in addition to the lurch it gave as he found himself at the mercy of yet another sword this morning. Twice in one day was two times too many. Damn, he was really off his game.  
“I am no less capable than you - in fact, more so - and far more powerful, far stronger, faster, and infinitely more knowledgeable.” He stepped into Dean’s personal space and stared him down, as Dean tipped his head away from the hovering sword, excruciatingly uncomfortable. “I am a great deal more valuable than you, in every sense. You should show me… some respect.” He ground out these last words in such a way that Dean felt the words rumble down his spine, and he swallowed.  
Castiel removed the sword without even a movement, only a thought, and he didn’t step away as the sword sheathed itself. The eye contact didn’t get any less intense, but Dean wasn’t about to step backward and back down. This was a fight too.  
It felt like an eternity for which they just stared at each other, but by rights it was probably about another three or four seconds. Castiel glanced down at Dean’s limply hanging arms with balled fists, and the armour that had been relinquished at his feet, and he stepped back, finally.  
Dean wet his lips. “I, uh, I’m Dean. Winchester.” And he held out his hand to shake. _The dude better take it_ , Dean thought, _because this is as close to as an apology as he’s ever going to get._  
Castiel frowned for a moment, eyes darting from Dean’s hand to his face, dubious. Then he took Dean’s hand in his own, gently, and bent down to kiss the back of Dean’s knuckles. Dean’s eyes widened, and he swallowed again as Castiel straightened up, dropping his hand.  
“Y- you kissed my hand.”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes at him unsurely. “Yes. It’s how people greet the High Priestess, and - and sometimes her friends. I assumed that was how I was to greet anyone else. Did I do it wrong?”  
Dean’s brain stuttered for a moment. “I’m not wearing a ring,” he said, holding up his hand with his palm toward himself, showing Castiel that he was truly not wearing a ring.  
“...Are you trying to tell me that you remain unmarried? Because I don’t―”  
“No, I mean, when people kiss her hand, they kiss her ring. It’s respectful and stuff for important people, but if I’m not wearing a ring, then you’re kissing my hand.”  
Castiel continued to gaze at him, focus moving from one of Dean’s eyes to the other.  
“Kissing the hand, it’s―” Dean closed his eyes and kept them closed as he said, “it’s what people do when they meet a pretty girl.” He opened his eyes again to see understanding break over the angel’s face.  
“And you believe women to be inferior.” Castiel nodded once. “I apologise, I’ve insulted you.”  
“Wha- what, no, that’s not, that’s not―” Dean was burying himself in a flurry of thoughts, and attempted to calm them down. “Dude, if I thought women were inferior, would I really fight with a woman by my side? Or have a girl horse, and - hey, quite rightly - believe she is the best damn filly that ever lived?” Dean shook his head, hoping to clear the notion out of Castiel’s head as he did so. “Anna said it herself just this morning, there’s nothing men can do that women can’t do just as good. I’m kind of more insulted that you thought that’s what I thought, than actually saying it in the first place.”  
“I am truly sorry I mentioned it,” Castiel said, and Dean grinned.  
“Anyway, when you meet a guy,” Dean continued, holding his hand out as if to shake, “here, put your hand up like mine,” he said, gesturing with his left hand that Castiel put his right hand against Dean's own. Castiel hesitated, then copied Dean’s motion, holding their palms parallel in the air.  
“Then you take it, like this,” and he pressed their palms together, and wrapped his fingers around the side of Castiel’s hand. Castiel copied, then Dean moved their hands up and down. “There. Like that.”  
When Dean looked up, still shaking, regulating the pressure so the angel learnt the best way - Castiel’s eyes were wide with wonder, almost surprised. “We fit,” he said, clearly a new discovery. “Our hands, they fit together.”  
Dean looked down at their clasped palms, and saw that yes, their fingers were neatly cupped around each other’s hands, and could feel how the grooves and muscles in his palms sank equally deep into the soft flesh of Castiel’s palm. If Dean pressed any harder, there would be a vacuum between them as the thin layer of air was pushed out.  
He realised they’d been shaking hands for quite some time, and dropped Castiel’s hand. “Usually that only takes a couple of seconds,” he said, eyes on Castiel’s embroidered shoulder. He didn’t want to be the maker of the man who stands there shaking hands for an eternity when he meets someone. And something told him that Castiel wouldn’t work it out, at least not until he’d embarrassed someone thoroughly. Possibly Castiel himself, if he was even capable of embarrassment.  
“Now you got that down, uh. Look, can I ask - you _have_ been out of the castle before, right?”  
“A few times, rarely.”  
“Why’d you come out today?”  
“To meet you.”  
“And - that’s it?”  
Castiel glanced around the space around him for a moment, like it held answers. “Yes.”  
“Why?” Dean asked, somewhere between curious and confused.  
“You seemed interesting enough that I might like you as a... friend.” He said the word like it was a new and foreign concept.  
Dean chewed the inside of his lip. This man obviously needed help. And currently it seemed that Dean was the only person around to give it - quite literally, as the courtyard was now deserted, Balthazar and the other angels having wandered off already.  
Dean had more training this afternoon; he was going to attempt to show Christian how to use the throwing stars, without Gabriel present this time. Last time Gabriel had spent the entire time making the metal stars fly in a circle and prod Christian’s backside, and it had taken Dean about half an hour to work out which angel was using their mojo. Not that he’d minded at the time, because Christian was, to say the least, unpleasant.  
Either way, the point was that he was busy. But he had a little time before then, and he was sure Christian wouldn’t care if he was late. He’d probably thank him.  
“You’ve never been to the lower town, have you?”  
“No.”  
Dean had been expecting the answer, but still his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Dude, you haven’t lived until you’ve been to the lower town.” He grabbed Castiel by the shoulders, giving his biceps a light squeeze. Despite how lean Castiel appeared, there was firm muscle under Dean’s hands. “There’s this one place, they make these food things - God, they are _heavenly_ ,” he sighed, eyelids fluttering closed in pleasure at the mere thought. “They’re called ‘pies’.”  
“You seem very enthusiastic.”  
“Hell yeah I’m enthusiastic,” Dean replied, grinning, letting Castiel’s arms go with a final friendly shove. “And you’re gonna eat a pie if it’s the last thing I do.”  
Castiel seemed troubled by this statement for a moment, before his face cleared and he nodded. Dean relaxed, pleased to have knocked some sense into the man.  
“All right, uh...” Dean glanced around at the stone walls, some thin spring vines dangling over the other side of the tiny court. There was a marble bench beside the fountain in the wall, a lion’s head spewing water into a bowl beneath it. “Meet me here in half an hour, okay?”  
Castiel nodded in agreement, not moving as Dean walked past him, headed for his chambers for a quick wash and to gather supplies for the short trip ahead.  
“Oh, and change your clothes, okay? Wear something plain, grey or brown maybe. White kind of stands out like a sore thumb.” He turned his back on the angel, but not before seeing him looking intently at his thumbs. He seemed to be trying to imagine what they would look like if they were sore.  
~  
Dean arrived at their meeting place perfectly on time, dressed out of his darker clothes for once. He’d put on a summer forest-green tunic, V-necked and tied at the waist with a brown belt, sword and scabbard fixed to it. He’d bought the shirt recently, and had been waiting for an occasion to wear it: a trip to the lower town and – Dean’s stomach flipped in anticipation – a chance to try that _pie_ again.  
He’d had pie twice before, once when he slept in town overnight because he was having new windows put in, and once when he’d escaped Sunday mass and needed a place to hide. Okay, so he may have snuck that one off the back of a cart because no-one was around, but he came back the next day and tossed the stall owner a coin, never mind the confused expression he got in return.  
But Castiel was late. Dean kicked around the square, not bothering to sit on the bench. The light sand scuffed at his brown boots, and he drew patterns in it while he waited. He wasn’t sure how long he was supposed to wait, because nobody had ever stood him up before. Castiel evidently had no grip on the respect being a member of the Guard was meant to garner.  
Strangely, Dean found it refreshing. Castiel didn’t fear him simply because of his stature – maybe, although Dean did not yet know the nature of Castiel’s place in the castle, Castiel might rank higher? He had no clue. Dean would be pleased if they had equal standing. He had rarely known anyone who could speak to him as an equal, outside of his fellow Guardsmen. And he didn’t like half of them very much at all.  
Dean tried not to think about how he really couldn’t afford a distraction right now. But with his Captain trial looming, Dean found himself longing for exactly that. He needed something new and interesting in his life. Castiel certainly fit that description better than anything else he'd encountered in months.  
The very moment that Dean gave in and sat down, Castiel rounded the corner, wearing exactly the same white embroidered tunic and trousers he’d been wearing previously. Dean stood, and narrowed his eyes at him, and Castiel explained.  
“It seems I have no other clothes. I searched my chambers and my rooms, but Priestess Masters has only provided me with white. It is after all, the colour of purity, her colour.”  
“You can’t mojo yourself something?”  
“Oh...” Something seemed to click within Castiel. “The Priestess doesn’t like me to use my power. But... I suppose I could...”  
For a second, Dean thought Castiel was going to cry, but then he looked down at himself and brushed a hand over the cloth covering his chest, and as he caressed it, the white changed to blue, seeping through the strands of fabric like blood, twisting through threads and spreading up over Castiel’s shoulder, swallowing the V-neck in a blue as vibrant as Castiel’s own eyes, but several shades darker. When the shirt was as blue as the summer sky, Castiel looked up at Dean for his approval.  
Dean blinked in astonishment, because that was, frankly, the least violent or disruptive display of power he’d ever seen an angel use. As far as the garment went, it was actually quite pretty.  
“Uh, maybe mojo those gold threads away too. Someone’ll try to pinch it if they see it. It’s worth a lot.”  
Castiel did so, and the thread bled into the cloth and vanished like it was never there. In another second, Castiel had turned his white trousers to mud-brown, and seeing Dean’s turn-collared boots, copied the design to a similar pair that grew up out of the dust and cocooned his bare feet in a swathe of leather. Dean beamed at him, impressed.  
“Awesome,” he said, sweeping out a hand and gesturing Castiel to walk beside him.  
Dean directed them toward the stables, and as they walked, he got the distinct feeling that Castiel needed a hand to hold, because he was evidently well out of his depth. His head turned at anything that was faster than a cart horse, including the cart horses themselves, and low-flying birds, and the springtime bees. At one point he spun in a full circle when he saw a butterfly. The look on his face though, was one of complete wonderment.  
The type of people around here were generally reserved, uppity folk, with fancy clothes and places to be. Around the other side of the castle, a few minutes' walk from here, was the part where the High Priestess usually resided, with the monks milling around doing their thing. Where Dean and Castiel were heading, it was all business. There would be people just about everywhere doing just about anything that it was possible to do inside four walls open to the sky, and a dust pit. Dean began to wonder if Castiel could handle it after being inside for so long.  
“You all right there, buddy?” Dean asked, as they neared the castle stables. Castiel was on tiptoe, straining himself into the air.  
Castiel turned to him with absolute joy on his face as he said, “It smells disgusting!”  
Dean laughed, a hand to his stomach as he felt it clench. “That’s horses for you, Cas. I feel bad for the poor bastard who has to muck them out all the time.”  
“His name is Colton and he has three sons, the eldest of whom also works here.”  
“What?”  
“The man who cleans away the horse dung.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“Mojo.”  
Dean grinned again, slapping Castiel on the shoulder lightly. He stepped forward and led the way through the walkway, a wide tunnel covered with a pointed roof and strewn with hay, crushed and flattened by the passage of many hooves and feet. Castiel followed him closely, almost stepping on his heels. Dean was reminded of a dog he had owned earlier in life.  
With a nod to the man sweeping droppings, Colton, Dean pulled round into a stall and presented his horse to Castiel with a sweep of his hand. “Chevrolet Impala, the finest horse in all of Zamreer.”  
“She is indeed very well-built,” Castiel remarked, placing a gentle hand on her muzzle. She snorted, nudging him. “God must have enjoyed creating her for you.”  
“Uh, thanks, I’m sure He did,” Dean said, fetching her tack. He set her all up to ride, trying not to look at Castiel too much while the angel communed with his horse. He seemed to speak to her with just his eyes; she neighed and whinnied happily as he stared at her. Dean considered that maybe Castiel’s staring match earlier was meant to communicate something to Dean that he simply hadn’t picked up on.  
Dean mounted his horse gracefully, but Castiel did not follow suit in the same manner at all. After watching the angel make several failed attempts to hoist himself up behind Dean, placing his foot in mid-air and hoping it would help, Dean directed him to a mounting block. He was relieved when Chevy didn’t even flinch at the extra weight. Once settled, Dean allowed his horse to lead the way out of the stables. As soon as she took her first step, Castiel’s hand flew to Dean’s waist with a cry of surprise. Two or three steps more of Chevy’s rolling gait beneath them, and Castiel gave a pleased hum, but didn’t let go of Dean.  
Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s palm through his shirt, fingertips pressed nervously into him. He didn’t mind as much as he thought he should. It was pleasantly reassuring, to know that Castiel hadn’t fallen off yet.  
They sped up to a trot once they entered the sunshine, Dean nudging Chevy toward the downward slope that led to the lower town. White cobbles clip-clopped under them, and as the ground sloped downward, Dean felt Castiel pressed up behind him, both arms with a firm grip around his waist.  
“How far is this journey?” Castiel asked, his voice close to Dean’s ear. He was moving around as he said it, glancing from one side of the horse to the other.  
“About ten minutes. We could’ve walked but Chevy needed a little attention.” He patted his horse as she balanced herself on the slope.  
There was a silence that stretched for a few minutes, in which Dean navigated them through the middle town and across a bridge. When they crossed, Castiel loosened his hold on Dean’s middle and sat up straighter to see over the edge, to the river. “I see a fish!” he said, his voice as passionate as when he’d told Dean that his mere existence demanded his respect. Dean was beginning to like that voice, as he’d rarely met anyone who cared so much about what they were saying.  
“You never saw a fish before?”  
“Never. Only in books.”  
“You read a lot?”  
“There’s... not much else to do inside the castle. But there are many books, on a broad range of subjects. I find the pastime enjoyable,” Castiel replied, calming down once they passed the bridge and headed into a different part of town, buildings turning from pauper houses to grubbier, greyer-stoned constructions, one large one looming out in the near distance. There were people all around them, mostly on foot. He liked that he was recognised less down here; fewer people knew he was part of the Guard. Generally people hated Guardsmen, and with good reason.  
“You’ve been here six years, and all you’ve done is read?”  
All the angels had been on Earth for six years. All of them, save Castiel, had joined the ranks of the Guard. It was part of the deal.  
“Read, and watch people. I very much enjoy watching humans interacting.”  
“Oh, so you’re a stalker.”  
“I don’t know what that means.”  
Dean grinned and turned off the path, halting his horse outside a stone archway about as tall as three men. People bustled in and out, carrying things, pulling animals, chatting and gambling and shouting. The smell was unmistakable: the complex, layered smell of life.  
It had not escaped Dean’s notice that the fallen angel’s hands were now clamped firmly to Dean’s sides, palms a little sweaty. He had reason to be nervous, Dean supposed. Perhaps this was too much all at once, dragging a recluse right out into the open. Castiel might enjoy people-watching, but being down in the fray of it, it was pretty damn overwhelming.  
“You okay for this, Cas?” he asked him, not yet dismounting. Castiel was silent for a bit, but then nodded, eager. He slid off Chevy first, clinging to her until Dean was beside him, then, like a child, took hold of the corner of Dean’s shirt, holding on for dear life. Dean tied his horse to a post and promised money to the kid standing guard, for not letting anyone steal her.  
A donkey wandered past in front of them, a bearded man in a red robe following behind, tapping it with a bamboo stick. Dean let them pass before he tugged Cas forward, through the archway. Castiel’s hand had already dropped away from his shirt, more confident now.  
As the rush of movement filled his vision, Dean tried to imagine what this place would look like to a newcomer.  
Before them stretched a large square courtyard, dirt-smeared walls on all sides and an open sky through which midday sun poured in, blue sky clear and bright. The ground crawled with people dressed in muted colours; he and Castiel were not out of place. There were people in robes and togas and shirts, a few monks in white, but only those brave enough to get their clothes muddy. It was less muddy than usual, thankfully - the ground under them was dry in the sun, trampled by hundreds of feet, human and animal alike.  
People all around the walls had stalls selling their wares; imported goods, food, livestock, clothes, clay pots; the list was almost neverending. This was why Dean loved it here, it was so incredibly... random. There was never a guarantee as to what he would find. Sure, he liked predictable, but there was something about a unpredictable chaos that got him excited. He knew as well as anything, that anything could happen here.  
“There anything you want to look at, or can we go find the pies?” Dean asked, not bothering to conceal the fact that he would rather do the latter.  
“Please, lead the way,” Castiel said, gazing at Dean warmly. It was either that, or he was laughing at him.  
They spent a few minutes navigating the throng of people, stepping on toes and subsequently being stepped on. For a second, Dean lost the movement of dark hair in the corner of his vision as Castiel fell behind, so he turned around to see where he had gone: Castiel had stopped to comfort a squealing pig, crouching to look it in the eye. In a space of seconds, the pig was calm, agitation visibly giving way to contentment.  
Castiel stood up and Dean met his gaze, and Dean decided then that was going to enjoy Castiel's company more than any of the other angels’. He was exactly the kind of unpredictable that Dean found interesting. He didn’t understand him at all.  
“I found the pie stand,” Dean muttered, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. Castiel followed him without holding his shirt, and Dean counted that as a win. He was still awfully close to Dean’s heels, however.  
A table was laid out with stacks upon stacks of baked goods; bread and cakes and - aha! - _pie_. Dean rubbed his hands gleefully, and leant forward to purchase two of the palm-sized pastries. He handed one to Castiel, who took it gratefully, but unsurely. He wasn’t certain how to hold it, but when he saw Dean cupping his in his hands, he did the same. Dean chewed and swallowed, then led Castiel off to the side, out of the way of the crowd.  
Dean was glad he had his eyes open for the moment that Cas took his first bite. He clearly had no idea what to expect, so he approached the pastry with some trepidation, sniffing the delicate aroma, licking it with a flick of his tongue. Then he opened his mouth and sank his teeth into it, and Dean grinned. He knew the expression of pure bliss on Cas' face was the same one that he himself had worn when he’d tried his first pie. He also noted with pride that it was the same expression that he had become adept at causing on the faces of his lovers. Happy women did indeed make the best faces.  
Dean almost blushed, because the stuttering moan Castiel let out of the back of his throat was verging on sexual. The sounds got quieter as he ate, and his dumbfounded face became steadily more controlled as the angel realised what a fool he probably looked, and how much attention he was drawing - but the blatant pleasure was still evident, even as he took his last bite. He licked his fingers, then examined his hands in hope that there might be even one particle left uneaten.  
It took Castiel’s eyes meeting Dean’s once more and staring back pointedly, before Dean realised that not only had he been gawking at the other man, but he’d been so intent on Castiel that he’d completely ignored the remainder of his own pie, and stewed apple filling was steadily dripping out of his hands.  
“Oh!” Dean said, shoving the escaping filling into his mouth and barely registering the taste for a good few seconds.  
They wandered from stall to stall, Dean eager to show Castiel everything he loved about this place, and Castiel was eager to take it all in. Dean had never gotten this sort of responsiveness from Gabriel or Balthazar, or even Anna - and before that, he’d been alone. Of all the good things that had happened to Dean within the past years, Castiel’s appearance was shaping up to be one of the better ones.  
“Dean, wait,” Castiel said, taking Dean’s elbow. “Do you smell that?”  
Dean subtly sniffed the air, not keen to look like he was being pulled into the air by his nose, like Castiel did. “Perfume?”  
Castiel let out a short, soft breath, looking at Dean from beside him. He was a little shorter than Dean, but taller than most women. “That’s perfume?” he asked, wonder braiding his smooth voice.  
“Wanna go take a sniff?” Dean suggested, already leading the way. But Castiel cut in front of him, apparently keen to use his newly discovered sense of smell to locate the source.  
It took a few minutes; Castiel wasn’t likely to have a future as a scent hound, but it was admirable that he had picked it out from the muddle of smells all around them, given he’d rarely smelt anything stronger than a dusty library or freshly laundered fancy cloth, possibly some rose petals strewn through his bathwater.  
“Oh, look at them all,” Castiel sighed at him, eyes on the table before them. Coloured glass bottles were covering every flat surface, gleaming in the sunshine, colours reflecting like rainbows across the angel’s face. And the smell... it was _glorious_.  
Around this stall always hung the sweetest, most potent, yet delicate aroma that ever drifted past Dean’s nose. Not lying, he would have gone to _bed_ with that smell. He wasn’t sure if his mouth was watering or drying up, but something was happening in his mouth that he couldn’t explain. It was beautiful.  
Castiel had politely interrupted the line of women that surrounded the table, weaving his way to the front and poring over the bottles of perfume like they held the secrets of the universe inside each of their stoppered glass caps. Dean didn’t have much choice but to follow him into the gaggle of females, with the occasional “‘scuse me, ladies,” and “pardon me, m’lady”.  
“Fifteen a bottle, but I’d knock something off for you if you ask real nice, Winchester,” came a honey-sweet voice from the other side of the table.  
“Cassie.”  
“Yes?” Castiel asked.  
“What- oh, no, this is Cassie. An old... friend.”  
Castiel eyed the girl across the table warily, distracted from the perfumes by Cassie’s round face and wild black hair and dark skin. Cassie smiled at him gently, and Castiel seemed eased by that.  
“Well, he says friend,” Cassie smiled, conspiratorially.  
Cas swallowed, and seemed to be biting his tongue. “I see.”  
“This is Cas,” Dean said to Cassie. “Castiel.”  
~x~  
“Oh my God,” Sam said, chuckling. “Cas. Castiel. You named your bird after this girl?”  
“After Cassie?”  
“After the angel,” Sam clarified. Dean had described her beautifully, the way her dark hair framed her face, pale skin and full lips. And the piercing blue eyes he kept mentioning, his hawk had eyes the same. It wasn’t a great leap to say that the same blue eyes influenced Dean’s naming of the bird.  
Dean was looking at Sam blankly. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said, finally.  
“Anyway, sorry,” Sam said, grinning. “Keep going.”  
~x~  
“This is Cas. Castiel,” Dean told Cassie, over the bottles of perfume.  
“‘tiel’? An angel?”  
“Not the fighting kind, it seems,” Dean said, sparing a glance at Castiel’s slightly uncomfortable expression. Women shoved at them as they stood there, but Castiel ignored them.  
“Oh, well.” Cassie said, unperturbed. “Perfume, Cas?” she directed at him, gesturing to the entire table. “Your wife would like them, I’m sure.”  
“My wife? I’m not―”  
“―Oh, no, he’s not― “  
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” Cassie said, hand to her cheek. “I just, I saw the ring, and I thought―”  
“Ring?” Dean asked.  
Castiel turned to him and held the back of his hand out for Dean to examine, fingers spread. On the third finger of his left hand, there certainly was a ring; a band of silver, finely crafted, with a ribbon of white twisting through the centre, like a tiny vine was embedded through it.  
“A symbol of Her Grace, the High Priestess. I am, essentially, her property.”  
Dean’s jaw snapped shut like a vice, but he pried it open with some difficulty, to ask, “You’re not... like a slave, or anything, are you?”  
Castiel shook his head. “I have no designated purpose other than to exist in her care.”  
“What, like... nothing?”  
Castiel shook his head again, dropping his hand back to his side. A young blonde woman glared at the back of his head, since he was very much in the way of the perfume stand’s display. It kicked Dean into action, anyway. “Did you, um, wanna look at the perfume?” he prompted, deciding that they would continue this conversation somewhere less crowded.  
Castiel returned his attention to bottles, and began to pick them up one by one, inhaling the contents from gently-raised lids. Dean stood awkwardly for a while, feeling like the third wheel between Castiel and the perfume, but once Cassie also looked away to deal with another customer, he allowed himself to give in and pick up bottles as well. They all smelled fantastic, and aside from Cassie's winning personality, the mix of perfumes clinging to her skin had been one of the biggest reasons he had loved her company in the time that they were together. She always smelled like a summer rose, blossoming in a dry desert in the precious moments after rain. A person who can conjure up such an image is well worth knowing, Dean reasoned.  
“Dean, smell this,” Castiel said to him, passing him a short chubby bottle with a half-popped lid. Dean raised it to his nose and breathed in, and his eyes watered with such a strong blend of spices that it smothered his tongue and burned his throat. But, as the intensity cleared, he realised he was smelling the pure essence of the roses of Heaven. It swallowed his whole head down in an invisible mist of fragrance, and he squeaked.  
“That’s - that’s very nice, Cas,” Dean said, passing the bottle back. Cas seemed to understand how much more he meant by that, and beamed at him, communicating with only his eyes. It seemed like Dean was learning his language, somehow.  
The bottle went back on the table, and several more were passed to Dean to sniff at, each more fabulous than the next. By the fifth bottle, Dean was beginning to feel light-headed, and his throat was sore.  
But then Castiel made the sound he’d made when he’d tasted pie for the first time: a moan from deep inside him as if something had rendered him completely undone. “ _Ohhh_ ,” he sighed, grasping a slender blue bottle with slightly trembling fingers. “Dean. I _like_ this perfume.”  
Dean didn’t even think twice, only passed Cassie a handful of money without comment. Cassie watched as Castiel just stood there, breathing in her concoction. She seemed pleased with his reaction.  
Dean tied his coin sack back to his belt. “There, Cas, it’s yours. Now, come away so we can―”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I bought it for you, I thought you might like to sniff it _away_ from people.”  
“But... I have no money, I can’t return what you―”  
“It’s a gift, Cas. You don’t have to give anything back.”  
Castiel’s face was a mask of gratitude and confusion as Dean grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the stall; behind them the women flooded back towards the display in a wave. Castiel followed his guiding hand blindly, nose in his bottle. When they reached the perimeter of the market, Dean turned a corner and pulled the angel into a near-deserted alcove, the only other occupants a young liplocked couple, who abandoned the space with a giggle when Dean and Castiel arrived. It was sheltered, a wooden bench on one side, an olive tree gnarled and twisted in an uneven dusty bank. It was all shut in, part of the market, albeit an unused part today.  
Castiel finally pulled his nose away from the bottle when Dean asked him, “Do you want to put some on, or are you just going to sniff it for all of forever?”  
“I―”  
“Here,” Dean offered, taking the bottle and pulling Castiel’s hand forward. He had him hold his wrist to Dean, and Dean dripped on a small amount of clear liquid, thrusting the stopper back into the bottle neck. “Now rub your wrists together, like this,” and he showed Castiel how to spread the perfume, while holding the bottle under his arm. Castiel did so, then sniffed gingerly at his own wrist, before nuzzling his face into it and dragging his lips over his skin, eyes closed.  
“Damn, Cas... it must really smell good,” Dean said under his breath, smirking.  
“It does,” Castiel agreed, and seemed to be deliberating whether or not to shove his wrists into Dean’s nostrils.  
Dean leant forward, giving permission, and Castiel raised his left wrist up to Dean’s face. Dean took his loose fist in his own hand, inhaling―  
Wow.  
That was. Oh.  
“Holy crap,” Dean breathed, lips brushing Castiel’s wrist. Castiel nodded earnestly, pulling his other wrist to his own nose and sniffing it again. It took Dean a great deal of willpower not to seize Castiel’s wrist and wheeze all over it, to desperately try and fill his lungs with that unearthly divine aroma. Social boundaries by damned, he’d be sniffing the fallen angel till kingdom come.  
Dean pulled away, swallowing down the mist in his mouth, over and over. He held his breath, waiting until the scent had abated from his senses, watching as Castiel forcibly removed his own face from his wrist, and looking very unhappy about it. It was surely addictive, and unless he pulled away now, he’d never let himself stop. Dean nodded, as if they’d read each other’s thoughts.  
“So, Cas. Tell me more about this, uh, property of the Priestess thing. Not so much a free spirit as I thought you were?”  
Castiel pulled his mouth into a line, glancing down at the now-stoppered bottle of perfume, somewhat regretfully. With another glance up to Dean, he turned away and headed toward the wooden bench underneath the olive tree, sitting and slumping forward in the shade. Dean followed him and sat beside him, hands clasped together over his knees.  
“When the other angels fell, when I fell - we were all fighters, as if we were born for it. She picked me out among the others and brought me to her rooms, gave me my own quarters, made me comfortable. The others had to fight for the city if we were attacked, and I had a life of luxury upon the Earth. I didn’t think it prudent to argue.”  
“So you just... stick around?”  
“I have nothing better to do with my time. She... has one rule, that I don’t use my power.”  
“You used it when you jumped out of the castle this morning,” Dean remarked, half his mouth pulled into a grin. For the shock that move had given him, it had really been quite awe-inspiring. “And to change your shirt.”  
Castiel looked at Dean guiltily. “I only did that because you were there.”  
“Me?”  
“I... I think I wanted to impress you.”  
Dean bit the inside of his lip. “I guess it worked.” He paused. “But - seriously, dude - _why?_ ”  
Castiel shrugged with one shoulder, fiddling with the bottle of perfume. “Don’t know.”  
Dean examined the cobblestones under their boots, dry and dusty in the warm sun. “Well. I gotta say, wanting to impress someone... That’s... a very human thing to do.”  
Castiel looked at him with his wide blue eyes, and Dean couldn’t tell what emotion that was, at all. He shook his head gently, mildly perplexed. “Gabriel would’ve stabbed me if I’d said that to him.”  
Castiel huffed with amusement. “Gabriel does not enjoy the company of humans as much as I do. At least, not outside a sexual capacity. I don’t think he quite understands your... intricacies.”  
“Aren’t I the only human you know, or something?”  
Cas almost glared at him. “You assume too much, Dean.”  
“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”  
~  
Dean bought them each another pie, and they sat back by their olive tree and ate them quietly, Castiel occasionally throwing bits of pastry to the sparrows that flocked to his feet. Dean noted that he seemed to be trying to share the crumbs evenly between each of them - and failing, but it still intrigued him. He watched the angel and smiled.  
Dean almost had to drag Castiel back to his horse, once he realised they’d been in the lower town more than an hour longer than Dean had expected to be. As soon as Castiel was on Chevy’s back, however, he did not complain even once, all the way back to the castle.  
Castiel slid off Chevy with a puff of breath, going to pat her head while Dean brushed her down and treated her to a handful of oats. Castiel also gave the horse oats when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. Dean grinned and said nothing until he was sure Castiel was done, returning as if he hadn’t seen anything.  
Dean started heading back to the castle, going to get back into his training clothes. But he found the angel still in tow even as he passed where they’d met up earlier.  
It was less than a minute more before Dean realised that Castiel was all set to follow Dean around for the rest of the day unless he sent him away. Dean needed to find Christian and teach him throwing stars, he couldn’t deal with a lost puppydog with attachment issues as well.  
“Look, Cas - how about we do this tomorrow, yeah? Go get some rest, read a book or something.”  
“You’re busy.”  
Dean sighed, buckling his armour up. “Yeah.”  
For the first time in a long time, he wished he didn’t have the Guard to distract him. For years, his training had been his only escape from just about everything, and it had gradually become his focus, the point of his entire existence. His life revolved around it. But after one bizarre afternoon with a fallen angel, his regular life was exactly the thing he didn’t want to return to. The upcoming showdown that was hanging over his head didn’t bear thinking about.  
“But... tomorrow, okay? Maybe we’ll go to the Tree of Souls, you’d like that. It’s got all this mystical and magical crap.”  
“You promise?” Castiel asked him. It didn’t take a lot to see that Castiel was worried he’d never have another day like this again.  
Dean placed one hand on either of Castiel’s arms, nodding his head down to look him in the eye. “I promise, Cas. I can’t have you be the princess locked in her tower forever, right? Princess needs to have a life, man.”  
“I don’t understand that reference.”  
“Go look up some fairytales while you’re in your tower, would you?” Dean advised, grinning. Castiel nodded hesitantly, and then with a friendly pat to the angel’s shoulder, Dean was gone.  
~  
The following day, Dean escaped training early. Raphael had been around this time, and aside from the taunts about the upcoming fight for the place of Captain, he had been about as unkind as usual. Dean simply didn’t want to deal with the man, or any of the other Guardsmen.  
Anna and Balthazar had apparently gone on some sort of drinking binge last night, and were still too inebriated to muster up the angel mojo to fix themselves and show up to training. Of course, Dean had to hear this from an intoxicated Gabriel, who seemed to be enjoying his wooziness more than he should. From what Dean gathered, the stars Gabriel was seeing made him feel like a real angel again.  
Dean wore the same green shirt as the day before. He loitered in the little walkway with the overhanging vines and lion-faced fountain, turning around to see Castiel in his same blue shirt as well. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, Dean stood and thought to himself that blue really did suit the angel. In the shade of the vines and light of the midday sun, Castiel's mussed near-black hair cast a shadow that curved down his cheekbones, curling over his lips.  
Dean held back a “You look nice,” - because Castiel was a man, and men should not look ‘nice’. Dean blinked at the angel.  
“I’m glad you’re here, Dean.” Castiel looked relieved underneath the serious expression he seemed to be trying to hold on his face.  
“Tree of Souls, man. I’m not gonna miss this, it was my favourite place as a kid. I mean, that was before they put the courtyard in, but it’s still awesome.”  
“I don’t know what the Tree of Souls is,” Castiel replied, looking quite helpless at this fact.  
“It’s cool, dude. I’ll show you.”  
They walked to the stables, Castiel keeping step with Dean this time, obviously more confident than the previous day. His head was again turned by all manner of creatures; anything interesting pulled his eyes from where he was walking. Once Dean had to lean over and wrench him out of the path of a trotting horse, when Castiel had been too distracted by an early-season dragonfly.  
“Sorry,” Castiel said, eyes wide with surprise when he found that he had collided with Dean’s chest.  
“Watch where you’re going, all right? I get that everything’s new and shiny for you, but I’m pretty sure if you get squished, it’s gonna be hard to reverse.” He knew there was no need, but he brushed Castiel down from the shoulders, like he was dusty. They kept walking.  
They approached Chevy’s stall like the day before, and Dean spent a moment absorbed in her tack before he realised Castiel had wandered off again. He thought nothing of it - because hey, the angel wasn’t a child, he could probably look after himself. It took a cacophony of frantic whinnying from some distraught horse in another stall before Dean poked his head out of his stall and headed for the noise. Somehow, it had Castiel written all over it.  
Three steps down the walkway of the stables, and Dean saw what was causing the fuss: a massive white stallion, rearing and pulling against his reins, half-in, half-out of a stall. He was squealing and stomping, clearly very upset about something. Colton, the horse stable guy, was desperately holding onto the horse, his whole weight leaning into trying to stop him from rearing on his hind legs.  
And there was Castiel, standing with his arms raised in a calming gesture - surely it should be working, what with Castiel’s magical animal powers. But still the stallion leapt about like he’d seen a ghost.  
“I can’t get him to calm down, he saw this - mister - sir, here, and he just, I don’t know, he just lost it!” Colton called to Dean, trying to explain.  
Dean didn’t ask questions, going forward and helping Colton bring the horse down, petting its shoulders, soothing it when it got close enough to the ground. Soon enough, Castiel could look it in the eye, and it immediately stilled, coming to stomp its feet restlessly instead. Castiel took its face in his hands, and it whinnied at him.  
“I know, brother,” Castiel whispered to it. Dean looked at him sidelong, waiting until Castiel dropped his hands to his sides before sending a questioning glance his way.  
“His name is Lucifer,” Castiel said grimly.  
“Uh, as in, Dark Lord Satan kind of Lucifer, or...?”  
“The very same.”  
Dean raised his eyebrows at Castiel slowly. Castiel’s hand ceasing its patting of the horse, which snorted as its breath slowed. “Maybe it’s a stupid question, but, why is Satan a horse?”  
Castiel ground his teeth for a moment, communing with Lucifer silently, before answering; “When we angels fell, Lucifer attempted to... uh...” Castiel squinted at Lucifer’s grey horsey eyes. ”Attempted to unleash his full power upon the Earth and bring about a reign of terror, but... burned out.” The horse snickered and stomped his foot, lashing his head irritably.  
Castiel seemed to nod in understanding, glancing away and down at his own feet. “The High Priestess put his remaining Grace into an equine vessel.”  
“What, like as a joke? Stick it to Satan, stick him in a horse. Yeah, that’d work.”  
“It was a cruel thing to do,” Castiel shot back, his glance toward Dean stern and cold.  
“Yeah, but it’s... _Satan_. You’re seriously telling me this horse is the Bringer of Light, Prince of Darkness, and all that? The guy the church teaches everyone to hate with a righteous burning passion?”  
“Lucifer is but an angel, Dean. Like myself. You see me, don’t you? I’m in a human vessel. Lucifer is simply in a... to use a human term, he’s... in a lifeboat without a paddle.”  
Dean almost laughed at the hash of human language that Castiel had made, but let it slide with only a pained expression. “Okay, so what’s the big deal? Why’s he kicking up such a fuss?”  
Colton the stable guy was completely out of his depth, staring blankly at the white-coated horse as it chewed fixatedly on its bit.  
“Dean, please, for a moment, stretch your small human mind so that you might imagine what it would be like to be the most fantastic creature in all creation.” Castiel paused for a second, double-taking. “Then again, that may not be as difficult for you as I originally thought.”  
Dean was not sure if that was a compliment or not.  
Castiel continued, “Now imagine you were forced to bow before a new creation, one clearly much lesser than yourself―”  
“Look, I know the story, Lucifer gets kicked out of Heaven ‘cause he’s not down with the whole bow-to-the-humans thing, but that doesn’t explain anything. I thought you guys didn’t remember Heaven, so it shouldn’t make any difference.”  
Castiel thought about this. He glanced at Lucifer, then back to Dean. “You’re right, he doesn’t remember Heaven either.”  
“How do you know he’s not lying?”  
“He’s not lying.”  
Dean rolled his eyes and took Castiel’s word for it. “So, what’s the big deal?” he demanded.  
Castiel frowned at Dean.”How would you like to be turned into a horse?”  
Dean stared at Castiel. “You may have a point.”  
“Lucifer is bored. He doesn’t like the oats, and his feet ache from standing in the stall for so long.”  
Colton looked away from the horse finally, having been staring at him in awe. “Nobody’s ridden him in weeks, last person was one of my stable hands. He threw the boy twice, once into a duckpond. And bit ‘im. We were in a half a mind to turn the bugger into horsemeat for the dogs.”  
Lucifer snorted angrily. His eyes were wild with raw energy, but Dean didn’t miss the flicker of fear that swam across his horsey face. It was incredibly human in its movements.  
“I’ll ride him out today, we’re going to the Tree of Souls,” Castiel said, importantly.  
Dean pushed his lips together. Great. They were now going to one of the supposed portals between the Earth and the Underworld, and the Dark Lord Satan was coming with them.  
Lucifer didn’t make a peep while he was saddled up, apparently on his best behaviour. He trotted on the spot, eager to get moving. Dean shook his head at the horse uneasily, dubious about this turn of events. Even Chevrolet was unsettled when she came near. He seemed to be leering at her.  
“If you hurt her, I will have your head, Satan or not,” Dean warned Lucifer, jabbing a finger at his incredulous pale furry face.  
“May we go?” Castiel asked, using a stirrup to mount his new steed. Dean again counted it as a win that Castiel was good to ride on his own this time. Castiel was, unquestionably, a fast learner.  
The horses rode out, side-by-side, Dean taking the lead once they broke into the sunlight, heat warming their skin in an instant. Lucifer nickered happily, head pulling and shaking, grey mane whipping as their trot sped to a bouncy canter. Dean led them through moderately busy streets, navigating people easily, and the Devil-turned-horse behind him did the same. Dean doubted that Castiel even had to steer him. This was, without a doubt, the strangest set of travelling companions Dean had ever had.  
“Just through here!” Dean called back over his shoulder, gesturing to a golden-bricked archway further along the street. They entered at a steady pace, not needing to slow down at all, because pedestrians could see and hear them coming from a while off and had the sense to stay away from the middle of the street anyway. They passed under hanging clothes drying in the warmer shade of the day, criss-crossing the tunnel-like street like flags or bunting.  
Dean heard a gleeful laugh from behind him, and he spared a momentary glance behind him just in time to see Castiel standing up on his stirrups, straddling his horse with his arm stretched upward, fingertips trailing through the dangling cloth, leaving people’s washing lines trembling in his wake. The angel looked down and saw Dean watching him as they galloped, and laughed again. He was balancing so effortlessly, he could only be using mojo to stay upright. Dean couldn’t help but return his smile.  
They neared their destination after a few more turns, and Dean could feel his anticipation rising as they got closer to the courtyard that housed the Tree. It was at the very edge of the citadel, with the city’s outermost wall enclosing the courtyard on one far side. Beyond the wall was farmland, open and endless.  
The Tree had been his sanctuary, his place of worship - never the church, if he could help it, and he rarely prayed to God. Usually he went to the Tree to rest, to escape the world. He went there to dream.  
Dean heard the sound of Chevy’s hooves change from repeated echoes in the sandy golden tunnel of houses and people, to the empty clop of an open courtyard. They had arrived, and it was just as beautiful as Dean always remembered.  
Unevenly placed white slabs of stone spiralled out from the centre of a circle of buildings. The pattern on the ground twisted around a raised dais in the middle, from which rose the massive, unruly trunk of an ancient tree. Around the dais was a stone-built moat, twice the height of a man across, and three times as deep, keeping people away. The Tree’s thick roots had long ago grown over the dais and spilled into the water around it.  
The moat had been Dean’s greatest regret of the new additions, but so long as the Tree was safe, he didn’t mind. Its roots had taken hold there so quickly after the courtyard was built, that Dean could only think it was growing by magic.  
He pulled Chevy to a stop, a few people turning to look at them as Lucifer pulled up behind him. Dean was liable to be recognised here, because he visited here so often still. But he didn’t care. Nothing would stop him coming here.  
Castiel dismounted and left Lucifer to stand beside Chevy, neither man bothering to tether their horses. “It’s beautiful, Dean.”  
“I think this is my favourite place in the city.”  
Castiel gazed at Dean, and Dean could feel his ears burning. He turned to look back at Castiel, certainly feeling a little warmer than he should.  
“Thank you for showing me this, Dean.” _I can see it means a lot to you._  
Dean didn’t hear Castiel’s last few words, but he felt the meaning inside him. There, that was it. Castiel could do for Dean what he did for Chevy and Lucifer, or the pig in the marketplace yesterday. Dean had seen it happen and had wondered, but until now he’d never felt it working. It seemed Dean had been waiting for it. He felt another slight flush of embarrassment as he realised this.  
It wasn’t much different from normal human communication, really. There was just a lot more to Castiel’s meaning that Dean understood perfectly. It was pleasant, like Castiel had transferred an emotional feeling as well as just a meaning.  
“That was a neat trick, Cas,” Dean said out of the corner of his mouth, while staring up at the tree with its strong branches and spring leaves. “The other angels never did that before. Just you, huh?” He smiled, watching Castiel’s expression turn to a confused frown. “I won’t tell the Priestess you’re using mojo. Promise.”  
“I...” Castiel looked down at the roots of the Tree, considering something. “I didn’t do that on purpose. It was far too natural, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even realise―”  
“You just gave me all your schmoopy feelings, dude, and you didn’t even notice?”  
Castiel sucked his lower lip gently, blinking at the Tree. “It was an accident.”  
Dean didn’t really know what to say to that.  
“Uh, so this Tree. It’s meant to be a, like a, a - hole in the worlds. Between the living and the dead, that sort of thing. Portal to talk to dead people. They hold seances and crap here, I dunno if it’s real. Sometimes as a kid I used to climb up a few branches, just lie there. Sometimes there’d be voices. Pretty sure it was just people talking in the city, carrying up on the wind or something. But it was cool, you know?”  
Castiel shook his head. “There’s nothing here, it’s just a tree.”  
Dean huffed. “Not to burst my bubble or anything,” he said, rolling his eyes. Several people passed, tossing coins into the water.  
“I am sorry, but there is no denying that it is a very beautiful tree.”  
“People think that if you swim in the water, your soul goes to Hell. Again, pretty sure it’s a thing to keep people out, there were tons of people who came here just to wreck the branches when they were angry that people they love died.”  
Dean didn’t get to say anything else before a blur of white muscle rushed past him - the gigantic stallion that was Lucifer was bolting for the Tree and diving headlong into the shining green water of the moat. He landed with an almighty splash, a wave cascading over the edge of the stone pool, soaking in a puddle on the flagstones.  
He thrashed in the pool, legs kicking wildly, head bobbing repeatedly under the water. He appeared to be trying to drown himself.  
In a split second, both Dean and Castiel were by the waterside, arms outstretched to try and pull the flailing horse from the water, Dean kneeling on the raised stone embankment that held the water level a foot above the ground.  
Lucifer was snorting, trying to breathe, but ducking his head under the water like he was trying to go somewhere, then coming up to blink blindly in the sunlight. Castiel grasped for his flank, leaning over the splashing pool with one arm cast forward.  
“Lucifer, Lucifer!” he said, fiercely, “There’s nothing there, I can’t feel anything! You can’t go anywhere from here!”  
“What the hell is he trying to do?” Dean shouted at Castiel, over the manic whinnying and sloshing between them. Their shirts were soaked through, and they had gained a small audience; a few people came forward and lent their hands into pulling the horse from the water, but with nothing for him to stand on, it was impossible.  
“Reach Hell, die, I don’t know. He just... wants to leave,” Castiel said, shaking his head. He seemed forlorn on behalf of the horse-ified Devil. “This is really no place for him,” he added.  
“His place or not, I don’t want to have to explain to the High Priestess why Satan is no longer in her stables,” Dean said, jumping into the water beside the kicking horse. This was not particularly sensible, Dean knew that.  
Lucifer stabbed his hooves through the water, aiming at Dean’s legs. Dean could feel the water moving around his trousers, the muscular brush of Lucifer’s fetlocks as he pulled his feet back to kick again. Dean pressed open palms to Lucifer’s rearing backside, hands sliding against the slimy fur.  
“Pull him up!” Dean shouted to Castiel and the bald man beside him, trying his best to keep his head over the waterline. Green algae sloshed at his cheeks, cold and gross in his hair. His boots had filled with water and were pulling him down, but he kicked through it, exerting himself and pushing, his feet on the other side of the moat, pushing up from the Tree’s roots.  
Lucifer roared, throat taut and nostrils flared angrily.  
“Lucifer, you’ll die!” Castiel shouted at the horse, hands around his front legs now, finally, trying very hard to keep them from kicking him in the stomach. “You have so much to live for now, you’re not evil, you don’t hurt people! You don’t even remember your power, you can’t remember anything! You’re just a horse, there’s no reason to try to be anything else!”  
“You really think talking to him’s gonna help?” Dean muttered, spitting pondweed out. Every muscle was aching.  
“Lucifer, brother, please. Listen to me. I’ll be your rider. If that’s what you need.”  
Lucifer lashed a hoof at Castiel but he stilled it when he heard Castiel’s words.  
“I’ll take care of you.”  
Lucifer stopped kicking, calming enough that Dean fell with an exhausted sigh into the water, hands slipping off the horse and trembling underwater until he pulled himself up, holding on to a root of the Tree.  
Lucifer let them pull him out of the water. Castiel had to use a blast of mojo, because hey, the horse weighed a ton. Lucifer clopped onto solid ground with a shamed whinny, head down. Dean trod water, smoothing green plant life out of his sodden hair.  
Castiel patted his horse, comforting him. Then he turned to Dean, waving away several concerned passers-by who had stopped to help, with a small thanks to each of them. Dean took the proffered hand with a sigh, feeling his arms burning as he was pulled free of the water. He dripped on the flagstones, droplets only vanishing into the rest of the puddle that spread around them, hoofprints leading away to the soggy Lucifer.  
“Man, that’s just pathetic,” Dean observed, watching Lucifer shake his head and sending a rush of water into Chevy’s face.  
Castiel looked at the horses sadly. “He used to be one of the most powerful beings in all of creation, and he’s stuck as a horse, with no magic at all. I don’t think there’s much about that that isn’t pathetic, no.”  
“You’re seriously going to just... be his friend?”  
“I see little else I can do for him,” Castiel said, leaving Dean behind, dripping wet, and wandering forward to pet Lucifer’s head again.  
“But he’s _Satan_ ,” Dean said under his breath, moving his hands as if to illustrate an explosion from his head.  
~  
They walked back to the castle slowly, Castiel riding in Lucifer’s saddle. Lucifer seemed tired and humbled, and was very quiet all the way back. Dean could hear the squeak of Castiel’s wet saddle from where he sat, and he himself was slipping around due to his own sopping wet clothes. He’d had to empty out his boots before riding.  
Castiel made all sorts of promises to Lucifer as they rode - that he would take him out riding once a day, that he’d get different oats, perhaps a different stall for him to rest in. That he would spend time talking to him, and that Lucifer wasn’t required to talk back. That Lucifer wouldn’t be lonely again.  
It was almost heartwarming, Dean thought, that Castiel was so blind to who it was he was caring for. Yeah, he’d said that Lucifer didn’t remember being, well, _Lucifer_ , but Dean had his suspicions. Yet, he trusted Castiel’s judgement. He had to. It was all very confusing and somewhat repetitive in his head. He wasn’t really sure what to think.  
Dean waited in the stables while Castiel made the necessary requests of Colton, and while Dean went about caring for Chevy, he saw Castiel fetching things for Lucifer, washing the pondweed off his white pelt. Dean could do with a bath himself; he was beginning to smell the dankness of drying silt on his clothes.  
Plus, he realised with a jolt, he had his competition with Raphael tomorrow. He hadn’t trained enough, he wasn’t prepared at all. He’d been so distracted. He’d distracted himself, really. It was his own fault if he lost.  
Dean approached Lucifer’s new, slightly larger stall hesitantly. “Hey, Cas?” he said gently.  
Castiel, kneeling, looked up from his bucket of warm water, which he was towelling onto Lucifer’s legs, grey-green dirt running down in rivulets.  
“I’m, uh, gonna take off. I have a fight for Captain with Raphael tomorrow, which I’m really not - I haven’t really―” he swallowed, staring helplessly at the angel, who stood up to look back at him. Under the scrutiny of that piercing gaze, Dean cracked. “God, I’m gonna lose, Cas. The whole Guard’s gonna be hell after this. Raphael doesn’t care about protecting citizens, just imprisoning them, or beating them the hell up. I don’t think he’d know what to do with an enemy if he saw one. Everyone’s the same to him.”  
“Seeing equality is a good trait, Dean―”  
“I don’t mean like that. I mean he’d beat you up if you’d stolen bread to feed your family, or if you’d killed a man. In fact, he’d have more respect for you if you’d killed someone. He’s... not going to be a good Captain. I think we can all see that. But he’s a better fighter than me, and it’s not... it’s not―”  
“It’s not fair,” Castiel finished for him. Dean’s hands were twisted through his own hair, desperately swallowing down his bubbling emotion.  
“I should have practised more,” Dean sighed, dropping his hands to his side with a thwack. “I got distracted, you turned up, then stuff happened and...” he trailed off, eyes examining the wall between the stalls.  
“You regret your time with me,” Castiel summarised.  
“No!” Dean said, adamant. “I don’t. It’s been the best, I mean - it’s good, it’s all good.”  
Castiel was silent for a while, and Dean could still feel his eyes on his face. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Castiel directly.  
“Dean, can I ask you something?”  
Dean looked him in the eye. He may be feeling at a complete loss, but he still had manners. “Shoot.”  
“Are we―” Castiel started, putting a hand on Lucifer’s side. “Have we become... we’re... friends?”  
Dean grinned. Man, this dude was so seriously awkward, it was almost endearing. “Yeah, man. We’re friends.”  
Castiel’s face broke into a smile, one that lit up his eyes and wrinkled their edges more than it curved his mouth. There was no denying, however, that Dean had made him very, very happy with his words.  
Dean swallowed, and turned to leave, hands in his still-damp pockets, knocking his sword with his wrist.  
“Dean, wait.” Dean waited, turning his head back to see Castiel look up at him pleadingly. “Meet me at the castle’s south-west servant’s entrance tomorrow morning. If your competition’s at noon, I’d like to give you something before then.”  
Dean didn’t think it worthwhile to ask what, since he’d find out tomorrow. He nodded, smiled a little, then left.  
 _Yeah, man. We’re friends._  
Suddenly, it meant a lot more to Dean once he was alone.  
He spent the rest of the daylight hours training, and some time into the night. Nobody disturbed him.  
~  
Dean hadn’t been to confession in months. Last time was because, apparently, fornication was frowned upon. The fact that all the goddamn _angels of the Lord_ were doing it, supposedly made no difference at all, and Dean was still in the wrong. Never mind the girl he did it with; Dean was the wrongdoer. He wasn’t sure how a few hundred ‘Hail Mary’s was going to make anything better, but if it made God happy, well, he wasn’t one to argue. (Of course, that didn’t stop him doing it again. But the church didn’t have to know about those other times.)  
Dean took a deep breath as he entered the church. It was dark and still outside, night fallen long ago.  
Inside, it was warmer, lit brightly by the hundreds of candles that were placed all around. Dean had to hand it to them, the church really knew how to pretty a place up.  
It smelt like incense, subtle and sweet. Sandalwood, maybe?  
Dean walked down the wide aisle, glancing this way and that, seeing mostly-empty pews. People bowed their heads in silent prayer, monks and peasants alike. Everyone was the same in the church, and Dean liked that. Well, almost everyone. There were some people, like Rufus, as Captain of the Guard, and the High Priestess, who were honoured above others, given better seats and sipped at more expensive communion wine. But apart from that, nobody cared that Dean was a Guardsman so long as he didn’t flaunt it.  
Dean made his way to the confession booth. He hoped it was empty, he didn’t want to wait. He knocked, and a gruff voice told him to enter.  
He closed the gold-embellished door behind him and slumped onto the bench inside, hands over his face. He sighed, long and exhausted.  
“Take all the time you need,” came the gruff voice again, only the barest hint of sarcasm.  
“Bobby, it’s me,” Dean replied, talking to the grill between the other man and himself.  
“Could’a said somethin’, boy. I was all in ‘Father Singer’ mode over here.”  
“Well, I ain’t here for confession, Father. Just... some advice, maybe.”  
Father Singer sighed fondly.”’s what I’m here for. Spill.”  
“You know I have to fight Raphael tomorrow? For Capta―”  
“You’re damn right I know, Rufus won’t shut up about it. If I weren’t a man o’ God I’d damn him myself, all his muttering about Raphael this, Winchester that. I’ll have you know he’s still picked you as his favourite, if that’s what you’re worryin’ about.”  
Dean huffed, hands sliding off his face and coming to rest between his knees. “Good to know, but that ain’t gonna help me win a fight. You’ve seen the angels fight, they fight like you can actually see the power of Heaven behind them.”  
“You’re in it for the greater good, angel boy’s not. Ain’t that just proof that God’s behind ya, boy? What’s the angel in it for? Power, fame, riches? He ain’t gonna get that, he’s just gettin’ a whole lotta hard work that he ain’t cut out for.”  
“He won’t lose the fight.”  
“You can’t be sure of that, now, can you?” Father Singer replied, his rumbly voice right up next to the wooden grill. “Just have faith, Dean. God works in―”  
“Mysterious ways, yadda yadda. You just say that every time just to piss me off,” Dean snapped, a hand to his head again, massaging his temples.  
“Don’t make it any less true, kid.”  
“Whatever, Bobby,” Dean sighed, resigned to his fate. “Unless you actually have a suggestion, I’m gonna head out.”  
“Why don’t’cha stay for a while. When was the last time you actually prayed? Like, man-to-Divinity actual _prayer?_ ”  
“Does it matter? Prayin’ is between me and God, going to services every week isn’t going to force faith outta me. He knows what I think of Him.”  
“Dean,” Bobby said, almost pleading. “Say a few words before you go snuggle up in bed, all right?”  
Dean snorted. “Fine.” He stood up and pushed the door open, stepping into the orange candlelight of the church. “See ya, Bobby,” he said, quietly. He just about heard a grunt in reply.  
Dean went to sit in a pew near the front of the church, close to the aisle. He felt like he was fighting himself in doing so. He didn’t need the ambience, all the fancy carpet and the candles and the altar at the front. All he needed was a quiet moment every once in a while. But quiet moments were few and far between. And frankly, he didn’t have much to say to God any more.  
Dean slumped down and leant his forearms on the pew in front of him. “Uh,” he started, eyes on the golden decorations all over the walls in front of him. Dean lowered his eyelids, shutting out the orange glow, clasping his hands together. Was this really necessary?  
“Hey, um, big guy. It’s been a while. Maybe longer than we’d both hoped.” Dean swallowed, looking down at his loosely held hands. They were somewhere between worn, and well-cared for. State of his life, really.  
“I guess I should start with, uh, thanks. Thank you for not lettin’ me mess everything up completely. And for Gabe and Anna - and Balthazar - but that’s probably stretching it a bit. Thanks for making my life less crap than everyone else’s.”  
Dean took a deep, deep breath, looking around at other people in the pews as he did so. There was nobody in his aisle, but a few rows back there was a balding monk with rosary beads threading through his hands. Dean turned back and pursed his lips. “And thanks for Cas. He’s one of your kids or something, right? Well, he’s - uh - he’s kinda awesome. I guess he’s been a blessing, or somethin’. Too much?” he added, with a questioning glance to the ceiling. “Ah, whatever. If it’s all right by you, I’d...” Dean trailed off, not sure what to add next. He chewed his bottom lip, wringing his hands gently.  
“So there’s this fight tomorrow, and I’m not ready,” he said. “What I wanted to pray for, was help. For that. If that’s okay. I know you help people who help themselves, and all that,” he said, trying very hard not to roll his eyes mockingly, “but I’m probably about as ready as I’ll ever be, to tell the truth. I want to ask... that all of that blows over okay.” He swallowed again. “That’s it. That’s all I had to say.”  
Dean unclasped his hands and nodded his head. “All right, I’ll be going then. Get some rest.” Dean twitched in his seat. “Uh, I mean me, not you. I’m getting rest. You could have rest if you wanted, but that wasn’t what I―”  
Dean stood up. “You know what, I’m just gonna go. Bye. Nice talking.”  
And he left the church, hand gripped on his sword, taking long, fast, uncomfortable strides right up to the exit.  
~  
Unsurprisingly, Dean tossed and turned all night. His mind just wouldn’t shut up. _You’re going to lose_ , it said. _Think what life will be like with Raphael as your Captain._  
Dean would rather not think about it, but he couldn’t help it. Raphael wouldn’t train them as a group, so much as train the angels how to best terrorise human beings. Dean had no clue what Raphael was like when he had been a proper angel in Heaven, but down here on Earth? He was one seriously nasty bastard.  
Dean eventually fell into a nightmarish fever dream that had him writhing under the covers, stomach clenched. He woke with a start, absolutely sure that his gut had been impaled with a sword. It took a few seconds of desperate grappling under his sweat-damp shirt before he realised he’d been dreaming.  
Sunlight poured through his lead-lined windows, and he groaned, collapsing back onto his bed, kicking his tangled sheets away. He ran a sticky hand down his face, feeling grit dragged from his eyes.  
He could feel his stomach twisting, remnants of his dream still haunting him, apprehension about today’s confrontation. Then he felt another twist when he remembered that Castiel had asked to see him before his fight. This twist was less unpleasant. In fact it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Dean almost felt better about his fight.  
Keyword: almost.  
Dean got up, dressed, washed. He even tried stretching, to ease the discomfort that was building in his lower back. He was vaguely impressed with the fact that he could reach his toes, but that was as cheerful as he got before he left his rooms.  
He forewent breakfast, since he was certain that should he manage to keep his meal down (which was likely, since he wasn't one to pass on good food), it would, at best, make him feel very unwell and weigh him down as he tried to dodge Raphael's swift sword.  
He trudged down to the ground floor of the castle. Sometimes he thought there were too many stairs between his quarters and the rest of the world. Under attack, Dean would have to leave his room, walk (or run) down a corridor, three flights of stairs, across an open courtyard with a pond in the middle - then finally into the central entrance of the castle, where he could leave by a side door. It would be quicker to climb out of the window, which is precisely the reason Dean kept a length of rope under his curtain ties.  
Dean drew in a long breath as he met the chilly air of morning; the sunlight was cooler today than it had been the previous days. A mist was just rolling off the distant mountains, wispy and pale yellow in the early sun’s rays. Dean figured it was probably about seven o’clock.  
Dean liked springtime. It seemed refreshing, like a wash of clarity after the dull ice and grey haze of winter. The brush of green that covered the trees around the castle, he liked that too. Green was his favourite colour. The colour of life and newness, of a new start.  
He strode down to the servant’s entrance, where Castiel had instructed him to meet him. He hadn’t specified a time, just ‘morning’. Well, this was the morning, Dean thought. He had nothing better to do. He was too nervous to practise with a punchbag, or to rouse Gabriel from an undoubtedly drunken stupor, and ask him to help him destroy something. He was hoping he’d get through his final confrontation with Raphael by pure adrenaline.  
Instead, he sat on the three white steps that led up to an arched wooden door, sunken and well-worn down underneath his backside. Nobody came in or out through the door - he knew it wasn’t too early; servants were up and about all hours of the day and night. This entrance was mostly unused.  
Dean only knew where this entrance was because he spent so much of his time sneaking around, trying to avoid people. Fellow Guardsmen, clergymen, various people who had a bone to pick with him for few reasons that he could fathom. He knew, certainly, that should he make Captain - however unlikely - that sneaking had to stop. He had to be an upstanding citizen. And actually make appearances at the celebratory dinners.  
After a good few minutes, Dean’s fingers began to chill, and he couldn’t feel his feet as much as he’d like to. He stood and paced. He could be here for hours, as far as he knew. He began to swing his sword in front of him, swishing in figure-of-eights, jabbing at invisible enemies.  
Maybe Castiel had been watching him, somehow, because it was only a minute more before the fallen angel burst through the door, one hand on the black ring handle.  
He was wearing white again, and Dean had almost forgotten how out of place Castiel looked in such a pale colour. It was like the clothes were wearing him, not the other way around.  
“Dean, you’re here,” Castiel said, in a gratified tone of voice. “Please, come inside.” And he held the door open for Dean, stepping out onto the small set of stairs to let Dean pass.  
Dean sheathed his sword and smiled, walking inside the archway and coming to stand in a tiny alcove, another unlit staircase leaning in a spiral upward. Dean knew it led to a hallway that the servants used to cart supplies about; bedding and hot water - things for the bedrooms.  
“So, what was it you wanted to see me about? Important?” he asked, taking the lead and heading up the spiral, two steps at a time because the steps were quite shallow.  
“Perhaps. I have something for you. I think you might like it.”  
Dean turned to glance behind him as he climbed; they were halfway up now. “A gift?”  
“Yes.”  
“You didn’t have to, Cas.”  
“I know that.”  
Dean didn’t say anything more, but reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door at the top, gently, so it didn’t squeak.  
“Follow me,” Castiel whispered, voice hushed. There was nobody about, but sound would carry, since these staircases and corridors went almost everywhere on this side of the castle. The High Priestess’ rooms were in this section, if Dean wasn’t mistaken.  
“Do you hang out here often?” Dean asked, a step behind Castiel. The corridor was narrow, only enough space for perhaps one person and a trolley of supplies. Castiel walked purposefully and confidently, like he knew this place well. Better than Dean, in any case.  
“These are the passageways I use to reach your training courtyard, and the library. They’re far more efficient than the ones the Priestess uses, if somewhat less cheerful.”  
Indeed, Dean was used to far more draperies adorning the walls, more space, and more light. There seemed to not be a single window in this place, only candles in the walls above their heads. The musty candle smell was masked by the smell of damp, but Dean hardly noticed. Trailing behind Castiel, he could detect a whiff of the perfume he’d bought the angel.  
Dean smiled, and tried to breathe in as quietly and subtly as possible. It was an incomparable scent, and Dean couldn't possibly imagine what Cassie had made the perfume out of. It was headier than a thunderstorm, a sharper tang than a foreign fruit - redder than blood, a deeper blue than the bottom of the ocean, a brighter light than the sun. It was completely unplaceable.  
Dean swallowed and tried to pull his head out of the pool of colours. Castiel turned corners and opened and closed doors ahead of Dean. It occurred to Dean that he would be lost by now, if he were on his own. And the walls were close enough, and the tunnels were long enough, that he’d be panicking.  
But now, he felt no fear, not with an angel by his side. One he could trust. He had no idea what it was, but Castiel was... something new.  
They passed several servants, young women, carrying towels and dirty linen. It was a squeeze as they pushed past; Dean and Castiel pressed themselves against the wall. Dean only winked at two of them, but the others were quite likely older than himself, so he didn’t feel he was missing out on too much. Both winks got a giggle from each girl, and a squint from Castiel, so Dean counted that as successful.  
“Are we there yet?” Dean queried, fingertips brushing the wooden planks of the wall as they turned another corner. “Where are you even taking me?”  
“I’m taking you to my chambers.”  
“Seriously? No offence, Cas, but you should buy me a drink first.”  
Castiel turned to look back at Dean, still walking, his expression fascinated. “I have wine in my rooms if you want some, but I don’t recommend that you attend your competition while inebriated.”  
Dean chuckled. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”  
“If I’m not mistaken, you meant the statement as a flirtation.”  
Dean almost choked. “Uh - I, I mean, not _at_ you, as much as, um, like, in the general direction of, uh...”  
“I take no offence, Dean.”  
Dean sucked in a breath and tried to pretend this conversation never happened. Literal angels were, to say the least, _very_ literal.  
Finally, Castiel muttered an “excuse us” to a passing chimney boy, then turned out of the hallway and into a proper passageway, with windows and thin red carpet in the centre of the polished floor. Dean felt like he could breathe again. The smell of perfume was less pronounced, though, and he found himself missing it. But he did nothing about it, having embarrassed himself enough for now.  
Still Dean followed the angel, leading the way in and out of sun spots along the corridor, each elongated arch broken by lines of lead patterns. They came to a double-doored archway, black hinges holding each door to the wall. Castiel pulled the doors open with both hands, nodding to a passing washerwoman. Dean was surprised to find, impossibly, yet another corridor.  
The last one, thankfully. This one was deserted save himself and Castiel’s dark hair bobbing in front of him. One final set of doors, and Dean walked into a different world.  
White cloth was draped _everywhere_ , as decoration, from the ceiling to the floor, on every wall like tapestries. The floorboards seemed to be washed and scrubbed until they were pale and naked; Dean could hardly hear his footsteps on the softened wood. Chandeliers hung loosely from the drapes of sheets from above, the candles in them brand new and unlit. In any case, if the chandeliers were lit, the sheets would catch fire as they were hung so close together.  
A slender four-poster bed was the centrepiece of the room, and like all the furniture, it was ornately carved from white wood. The silk drapes around it were bathed in morning sun bouncing off the mountain mist in the distance. The room was facing the wrong direction to get direct sunlight in the morning, but it was bright. Very bright. The window on one side was curved, diamonds of glass affixed into a semi-circle all across one wall. The whole room was twice as large as Dean’s own.  
Dean’s first impression - aside from drowning in cloth - was how incredibly icy cold it was. Not only the air in the room, which was almost undisturbed - but this room was distinctly unloved and unused, despite its peculiar elegance.  
“Are you sure this is the right room?” Dean asked. He wasn’t sure if he should be doing anything other than standing and not touching anything, because that was what Castiel was doing, a couple of feet away, opposite him.  
“This is where the Priestess meets me when she sees me. As far as she is concerned, this is my home.”  
“You... live here?”  
“Almost never. I only sleep here, and only then when I’m not in the library or the garret.”  
Dean was having a hard time grasping his reasoning. “Why did you bring me here?”  
Castiel glanced down, drawing in a short breath. He turned and reached under the pressed white linen of the bedcovers. “To give you this,” he said, placing a sword in Dean’s hand.  
Dean took it, feeling the fine leather of the scabbard smooth in his hand, the tip of it intricately detailed with what looked like gold. He took the hilt in his hand, admiring the blood-red leather wrapped around the grip, and the circular ruby set in the pommel, encased by a globe of gold.  
Dean pulled the sword from the scabbard, his mind momentarily lost in a slow, sweet reverie. The metal whistled sharp as he drew it, silver glinting in the white of the room.  
The sword design was a blend of sturdy and delicate features, a mixture Dean had never seen in a weapon before. It was beautiful.  
He got the feeling he was the intended owner of this sword. It was made specifically for his hand. The blade was shorter than his usual sword, the cross-guard a little slimmer; but it was... perfect.  
“Where did you get this?”  
“I made it.”  
Dean gawked. “Y- you...”  
“Last night. After you left, I realised what you needed. And from what I understand about humans, I felt obliged to give you something I was capable of giving you, if it would help you succeed.”  
“You want me to use this in the fight today? For Captain?”  
“That was the intention, yes.”  
“Cas, I only have a few hours. It’s beautiful and perfect and yeah, but I can’t go into a fight with a new sword that I’ve never practised with. It’s madness.”  
“You don’t need to practise, just trust me. You’ll win the fight.”  
“Cas―”  
“Please, Dean.”  
Dean looked at those stupid blue eyes of his, and that stupid pleading pathetic look, and crumbled. “Whatever, man. I’m going to lose anyway, might as well do it in style.” He gave Castiel a warm smile. “Thanks, Cas. ‘s pretty neat.”  
“I am proud of it, yes,” Castiel said, half-smiling. He stepped closer to Dean and caressed the blade, fingertips running gently down the edge, as if memorising the way it was slightly thinner toward the hilt than the tip, and the flawless outward curve between the two, like a woman’s hips. Dean held the sword up and watched Castiel’s slim hands touch his weapon. He swallowed.  
“Now, come on,” Castiel said, lightly, “I have the rest of the castle to show you.”  
Dean almost laughed. “Cas, you gotta be kidding me. I have crap to do, I can’t goof off with you,” he said, shaking his head.  
“Dean, please stop worrying. Everything will be fine.” He looked at Dean with that intense, vaguely inappropriate stare of his, and Dean was so very close to believing him.  
“Don’t do that to me, all right?” Dean retorted, shaking himself out of the light grip he realised Castiel had put on his arm. “Don’t use your mojo on me.”  
“How could you better use your time, Dean? Answer me that. What could you possibly do that would make you feel any less nervous than you are now?”  
Dean ground his teeth and glared back at the angel. “What could you possibly show _me_ that would make me less nervous?”  
Castiel smiled a slow smile, eyes glimmering. “I want to show you the garret.”  
“The... what?”  
Castiel took hold of Dean’s elbow again, pulling him out of his quarters, leaving the inundation of white cloth behind and closing the door behind them. “It’s the top corridor of the castle, nobody uses it because it’s falling apart.”  
“So why do you go up there?”  
“Because it’s quiet.”  
Dean followed a step behind Castiel again, but this time through the main hallways of the castle. More people were awake now; Dean didn’t know who they were or what their job was in the citadel, but they were always around, and far better dressed than himself.  
He and Castiel seemed to be zig-zagging along pathways, along a corridor, up a staircase, then back through another corridor - not always in the same direction. Dean’s own memory couldn’t compare with how Castiel knew where every turning led, but he supposed being inside for six years had something to do with it.  
Castiel was rushing, Dean noticed. Every few steps he had to skip a little to catch up; other people passed in the other direction with a waft of moving air. He didn’t recognise where they were, and he was panting lightly. They were in the sunny half of the castle again, and it was warming up as the sun broke through the morning mist.  
Eventually Castiel slowed, and they were in a greyer, dustier corner of a hallway. Dean even fancied that it had been boarded up at some point. The staircase they took upward was drenched in a stale shadow. They emerged, turning one last corner onto the landing: a corridor exactly the same as all the others, but pale, like a ghost.  
It stretched out before the man and the angel, long and straight, with two doors off to the right. At the end, it turned the corner, and Dean knew it went all the way around the sides of the rooms, the same as every floor in this part of the castle.  
All along the left were the tall lead-patterned windows, sunlight streaming in straight onto the carpet. On all the other levels, the carpet was royal red, rolled out right down the middle of the passage with a foot of bare floorboard either side, up to the wall. Here, the carpet was greyed, ripped; the floorboards stained and so thick in dust that Dean couldn’t tell one wooden slat from the next. A thick block of a windowsill was set all the way down the corridor, the height of Dean’s chest.  
Like Castiel said, it was quiet. Deathly quiet.  
“I come here when I want to be alone,” Castiel said, his voice low. It sounded too big in such a quiet place, but it didn’t echo. It almost seemed like Castiel’s voice was right in Dean’s ear.  
“Then why did you bring _me_ here?” Dean asked. Castiel was apparently prone to taking Dean to places he had no sensible reason to be.  
“Because I want to be alone, with you.”  
It seemed so simple when he put it like that, Dean figured.  
They took up residence on the floor, since there was no furniture to be seen. Dean sat with his back to the wall, trying not to disturb the dust too much when he sat and crossed his legs in front of him. He lay his new sword across his lap, one hand over it protectively. The leather of the scabbard was warm in his hand, and he liked it.  
“Usually I look out of the window,” Castiel said, kneeling opposite him on the threadbare carpet, not caring that his hands sank into the dust and pulled up tiny swirling swarms of particles. The motes danced in the sunlight, gradually floating out of the sunbeams and vanishing. “Sometimes I just sit and think.”  
“You’re really weird, you know that?” Dean asked him, one corner of his mouth pulled upward.  
Castiel frowned. Dean’s grin widened, because it was an _actual frown_.  
“It’s not a bad thing, Cas. You’re interesting enough to be around,” he added, nudging at Castiel’s knee with the tip of his boot.  
Castiel tilted his head a fraction. “As are you.”  
Dean sucked on the inside of his lip, glancing around them at the empty, quiet space. “Was there actually anything you wanted to say, or are we just... sitting?” Dean was not accustomed to not doing anything. Usually he was training, or sleeping, eating - or socialising (that is, when he couldn’t avoid it any longer). Sitting down and just _thinking_ was not something he thought he was actually capable of. He hadn’t done that for a very long time.  
“Do you wish to talk?” Castiel asked him, head tilting again. He looked a bit like an overly-inquisitive bird.  
Dean locked eyes with the other man and realised Castiel was going to stare at him until he answered. “Yeah.” And then he looked down, wetting his lips. The staring made his stomach feel too tight.  
“About anything in particular, or―?”  
“Just―” Dean interrupted, “Just talk. Anything.”  
Castiel looked down the hallway, at the stripes of sun crossing the carpet all the way down. “I can tell you the story of how the angels fell. Unless Gabriel or one of the others told you already, you won’t have heard this part of the tale. I don’t think many humans know.”  
Dean leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees. Castiel’s eyes were glistening golden in the sunlight; he seemed unaffected by how bright it was. “Tell me,” Dean prompted.  
Castiel inhaled, like he was bracing himself. “We don’t remember what it was like to be angels, but we all know the power we still have. We know how marginal it all is now, compared to how we were in Heaven. We are far more powerful than humans.”  
Dean huffed, shifting to get more comfortable. The dust was going to rub into his clothes, he realised. He couldn’t bring himself to care.  
“When we fell,” Castiel continued, blinking, “it was like something was ripped out of us. It hurt. It...” Castiel parted his lips and dragged in a long breath. “It hurt like hell.”  
Dean pressed his lips together, hoping Castiel picked up on his sympathetic expression. Castiel glanced up and caught Dean’s eye, and held it as he spoke again:  
“Priestess Masters. She rode out to the Hellmouth - that’s what we call the field that we all fell to. It must be somewhere near the edge of the city, I barely remember. We… we were like empty, lost souls, tangled together. The Priestess caught us and separated us, as individual entities. She gave us all bodies, the bodies of dying people, willingly given. It took weeks before all of us owned a vessel.”  
Castiel swallowed and cast his eyes to Dean’s chest, where the Guard insignia was pressed into the leather, raised edges and hollows that made up the Masters crest.  
“She made us a deal: we fight for the city, protect it against enemies for all the years we live. In return, she grants us safety from the humans, she would make sure there was no fear, from either side. We live in symbiosis of safety, and we, as refugees, pay back the kindness in her rescue. We saw nothing wrong with that, so we took the deal. At the time we had no idea what our powers inside human vessels were like. We had no memories, we were like children.”  
“I remember the next part,” Dean added, nodding unhurriedly. “I’d just made the Guard, just passed advanced training. I fought beside the new angels. You were all... really friggin’ good. Just saying,” he muttered, as Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “Your brothers and sisters. Or whatever they are. They were good fighters.”  
“Angels are soldiers, it was a natural gift.”  
“Like your powers.”  
Castiel nodded, sliding his hands into his lap and clasping them together with a wave of dust following. “I was kept apart from my brothers, I watched them learning and developing their skills as fighters. I watched how you taught them, and how Rufus Turner taught them.”  
Dean couldn’t fight down his question any longer. “Did you ever get jealous?”  
Castiel stared at a patch of carpet for some time, pondering. “Emotion was harder for me to grasp, I think. I had limited contact with other angels, other humans. Jealousy is something that eventually surfaced, yes.”  
Dean just looked at him. He tried not to pity him, because the resulting personality in Castiel needed no such pity. He was still as intelligent and developed as his brethren, perhaps in a better way. He had never needed to know the driving anger that was behind the Guard training, or the bitterness that led to Raphael and some of the others being as cruel as they often were.  
Castiel focused his eyes on Dean’s chest again, gaze wavering over his heart. “We owe the Priestess our lives. She is the reason we dwell in the city, why we fight for her and her city’s people. Without her we would have swum endlessly in that field, our power useless and our lives meaningless.”  
“What meaning do _you_ have now? What purpose?” Dean hadn’t meant to sound so blunt, but something about the story didn’t seem to sit right. “The others wait for a battle to fight, but what do you do?”  
Castiel furrowed his brow, lower lip pressed upward like he was trying to stop it quivering. “I have no purpose.”  
Dean then felt the pity wash over him like a bucket of water. He could feel the muscles in his eyes rounding, he knew how he must look to Castiel now: like his heart was breaking for him.  
“Except today,” Castiel continued, turning his head up and looking Dean in the eye again. His voice was firm, no longer as wavering as it had been a moment before. “Last night, my purpose was to make your sword. Today, my purpose is to prepare you for your competition. It is my intention that you win against Raphael; you are a much better teacher. Raphael has nothing to teach except his own faulted morals.”  
“Yeah, buddy,” Dean said, his grin back on his face. “So, what’re we waiting for?” he asked, attempting to leap to his feet (and instead, wobbling to his feet). He tied his new sword to his belt, pleased at the strength of the leather tie. “We still have to prepare Chevy, get her all prettied up. And polish my helmet, and get my good armour out. The Priestess is gonna be there, there’s a ceremony for the winner,” he said, helping Castiel to his feet. The angel didn’t want to let go of Dean’s hand when he was standing again, and Dean had to shake him off. “You’re coming, right?”  
“To the ceremony?”  
“To the fight. I wouldn’t bother turning up to the ceremony, but there’s gonna be speeches and crap, and as a good sport, the loser’s gotta take a second blow, right?”  
“You won’t lose, Dean,” Castiel repeated. “And I will be watching the fight from my window.”  
“All the way up there?”  
“It has a better view.” Castiel dusted off his legs, grey dust in patches on his white trousers. It showed up even more clearly on Dean’s black, but he was getting changed later anyway.  
Dean raised his eyebrows a slight, then led the way back to the staircase leading down. He turned and gave the corridor one final sweep with his gaze, enjoying the torrent of dust that had flooded the lines of sun, making luminescent blocks all the way down the passage, right to where they’d been sitting. Castiel passed him and exited first. Dean followed.  
One day, he would be able to find this place without getting lost, he decided.  
~  
The real armoury was nothing like the training armoury. The breastplates in here were kept on person-shaped wooden stands, even if thick leather would never crumple. The swords were pinned side-by-side along one wall, always polished to a shine. Axes and daggers were hung artfully in rows across the back stone wall, the light touching the sharp edges and rebounding in semi-circles all across the opposite side. The ceiling was quite low, and it smelt musty, as this room was rarely used except for when servants came in to clean.  
Dean held the door open for Castiel, shivering even in the sunlight through the narrow windows around the top of the room. He was getting more nervous by the second. They only had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes before Dean had to be in the training courtyard, on his horse, ready for a showdown.  
Dean had to grab Castiel by the arm to stop him from wandering off and looking at all the shiny pointy things. They didn’t have time for wonderment.  
Dean gathered up his formal armour - twice as thick as his usual second skin. The Guard crest was emblazoned front and centre, the grooves filled with white paint. Castiel watched from his side, and Dean knew he noticed how his hands were shaking. Castiel said nothing about it, however.  
Dumping everything he needed on the empty table, Castiel reached forward to help him before Dean knew what he was putting on first. Castiel started with the chainmail, then the breastplate, slipping it over Dean’s head when he obediently raised his arms. Dean swallowed endlessly, gulping down his nerves, as Castiel buckled up the sides. His nimble hands worked quickly and efficiently, pulling the ties tight enough that even a well-aimed sword could not find a gap to penetrate.  
“You know I have servants for this,” Dean muttered, a shaky smile on his lips. He was unaccustomed to the bulkiness of this leather, and it felt too high on his neck once Castiel added the second part that protected his throat.  
“Your servants aren’t here,” Castiel observed. “Luckily for you, I’m well versed on this type of armour.”  
Castiel had to hold Dean’s hands still as he put his gauntlets on for him. There was a river of metal plates that flowed out from the knuckles of his hand, and Dean flexed his fist and watched them curl.  
Castiel stood in front of him, straightening after putting the leg plates on for Dean over his shaking boots. Dean knew Castiel was doing it all in the wrong order, but it was shaping up fine, and he wasn’t really in any state to do it himself.  
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispered, eyes focused on the straight line of Castiel’s dry lips.  
“Your visor,” Castiel added, turning and fetching it off the table. “I don’t think anyone could tell that it’s not been polished,” he said with a minuscule smile. “I’ll carry it for you.”  
Dean nodded, eyes closed. He wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. It made him feel better, the way he could feel the facets in the ruby, the gold cage that sat around it, the solid shape of the pommel under his thumb.  
Castiel nodded for them to leave, to collect Chevy from outside and make their way to their arena. They had not even taken two steps forward, before the door to the armoury swung open, and Raphael stepped in with a couple of manservants at his heel.  
Dean stopped in his tracks, hand gripped tight on his sword, ready to draw it from the scabbard.  
“Dean,” Castiel warned.  
“Oh, I see the bird has escaped from its cage,” Raphael said to Castiel, ignoring Dean. “And what a fancy flight this is,” he continued, his servants slipping armour on him as he spoke, raising his arms to either side for them to reach the buckles. “I hope you won’t bruise your wings, brother. I’m sure they were meant for something truly beautiful.”  
Castiel seemed to be oblivious to the sneer in Raphael’s voice, because he replied, “I appreciate the sentiment, Raphael. But I’m only here to help Dean prepare. I’m not fighting.”  
“No, no. I see that, too.” Raphael smirked. “You were never meant for anything quite as _real_ as a fight, were you, Castiel?”  
Dean’s stomach turned as Raphael said Castiel’s name, like the word itself were a mockery. It sounded like it was spoken wrong, like Raphael had said the wrong name. Everything about it just sounded plain wrong.  
“He was meant for a lot of things,” Dean said, and he realised his voice was much stronger than he’d meant it to be. He pulled the tone down a little as he added, “Fighting just ain’t one of them. Doesn’t mean he’s not as real a person as you or me.”  
“Winchester,” Raphael said, tonelessly. There was a long pause as the last of his armour was buckled up and he took his sword in hand, rattling it and shifting its balance in his hand. “I hope for a good fight today. If you are as good an opponent in a fight as you are a defendant of this worthless creature, you might just have some hope. As is,” he said, looking down at the hilt of his sword, testing its weight, “you don’t have a chance in Hell.” And he grinned, white teeth a crescent of malice in his dark-skinned face.  
Raphael swept out of the armoury with his young servants in tow, the shorter of the two closing the door behind him. Dean took in a long, deep breath, feeling his chest straining against his armour.  
“I’ll show _him_ chance in Hell.” And with that, Dean marched out the door, Castiel following a second or two behind.  
~  
“Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap,” Dean muttered, not taking a breath until his train of curses ran empty.  
Castiel tried to look him in the eye but Dean’s focus wouldn’t settle. “Stay calm, Dean. Let your instincts guide you.”  
“Crapcrapcrapcrap,” Dean said in reply, grip on his sword so tight that his fingers were going numb inside his armoured gloves.  
“Here, take your helmet. Just ignore the crowd,” Castiel soothed. Dean’s hands were shaking so much that he nearly dropped the helmet, before Castiel removed it from his trembling grip.  
People cheered around the corner, the occasional passer-by staring at Dean as they stood in the tiny vine-covered courtyard, Chevy to Dean’s left. She was decorated in finery - most of which Dean thought was both irrelevant and dangerous, as it dangled around her legs and was liable to trip her up. But it was fancy, and fancy was what today needed. This was as much as a stage show as it was a competition.  
“I think they’re waiting for you now,” Castiel said gently, as chants and cheers started up from the swarm of people in the training arena.  
“Crapcrapcrap,” Dean whispered, hoarse.  
“Here,” Castiel offered, slipping Dean’s helmet over his head, visor still up so Dean could see him clearly. “You are not going to lose.”  
“Y- yeah, well,” Dean stuttered, swallowing.  
Castiel stared at him, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cheek of Dean’s helmet, a kiss to metal.  
“What was that for?” Dean asked, eyes wide.  
“For luck.”  
Dean suddenly had about six different replies, but his throat was too tight to say even one of them. He nodded shakily, then turned to pull his horse through to the arena. Castiel followed at Chevy’s flank, and Dean could feel his presence all the way through the archway and into the throng of the crowd. As pats began to rain on his back, cheering drowning his ears, recognising faces of other Guardsmen - friend and foe alike - he lost his rein on Castiel’s whereabouts, and when he turned around to mount his horse, the angel was gone.  
Dean tried his best to remember to breathe, riding through the sea of people and to one end of the arena. The High Priestess sat back on her temporary throne to his left, in a white, flowing dress, her advisors and servants in a small formation at her side.  
Raphael stared Dean down on a chestnut horse from the other end of the courtyard, people around them in a massive circle, waving coloured banners - black, red, white. The black ones were for Dean, the red for Raphael. The white were neutral, but there were so few of those. Dean couldn’t see clearly enough through slightly blurred vision, to see if there was more red or black. It all turned into a wash of brown, the cheers muffled and tinny in his helmet.  
Raphael’s horse was growing restless, heavy feet lifting and pawing at the dirt.  
Dean zoned everything out; concentrated on breathing in, breathing out. His lips narrowed to a small ‘o’, one hand absently petting Chevy’s shoulder, the other fondling the hilt of his sword, fingers stretching and curling, ready to pull it to attack.  
When the signal came, a sudden jolt of noise - Dean wasn’t ready. Raphael was already charging him down, horse kicked into a gallop. Dean flicked down his visor, realising he’d automatically drawn his sword. He nudged Chevy into a trot, then another nudge and she began to run, sand kicking up under her hooves as she pelted down the fighting line.  
Sword out, Dean readied himself for the first blow; Raphael’s sword was slimmer and longer, the point of it aimed directly at Dean’s chest. So much for letting your opponent live, Dean was sure he’d be a bloody corpse by the end of this. His heart was pounding, he could feel it swimming in his throat.  
Here it comes.  
Dean swerved Raphael’s sword with a practiced ease, his own blade swiping at the fallen angel’s side, catching on a buckle and sending it blazing into the audience with a glimmering line of silver. Dean barely registered the cheer that went up behind him, as he rounded his horse at the other end of the arena, turning back to face his challenger.  
Raphael’s horse seemed to be channelling its rider’s anger; it snorted and toed the dirt as it swerved back to face Dean. He felt nothing but the thud of Chevy’s hoofbeats on the ground and the pounding of his saddle underneath him, the red horse coming up to meet them a second time.  
Dean swung his sword and he heard it whistle as it cut the air, connecting with Raphael’s thigh with a fleshy slice. Raphael’s sword, in the same moment, stabbed sharp into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean felt his sword arm drop weakly, the force of the blow running up and down his whole arm like it had been wrenched off and he could still feel its ghost.  
He turned at the end of the arena, the crowd taking a few steps back to allow for Chevy’s huge hooves and swish of her tail. In a moment’s glance, Dean’s eyes flicked to his right, up to the window Castiel had dived out of only a few days before. There was the angel now, perched on the ledge with his bare feet dangling over the edge, braced on the outside stone.  
Castiel was watching over him, and Dean felt braver.  
Raphael charged again, and Dean was already two steps ahead, his horse faster and stronger. For a third time, their swords met halfway down the arena, another cheer rising from the crowd. Nobody was touched this time, but Dean knew his fighting arm was compromised; his strike had not been as forceful as he’d meant it to be.  
Again. Raphael dropped his sword to Dean’s injured shoulder with a heavy movement before Dean could even swipe at him. His nerves trembled, up and down his arm, pain folding him over in half, face burying in Chevy’s coarse black mane. He grunted, visor slipping back - no, wait, his helmet. His helmet slipped from his shoulders and with a slow glint of metal, he saw it fall from the side of his horse.  
His head was unprotected, and Raphael was coming at him once more. Dean felt a wave of dread wash upon him. With his left hand, Dean turned Chevy, her hooves slower this time, like she knew Dean wasn’t good for this round. “Come on, baby. We gotta - we gotta...”  
She took the hint and jumped straight into a gallop, launching herself toward Dean’s assailant. It only took Raphael one last blow before Dean was sliding from his saddle, landing on his knees in the dust. He crawled to his feet, turning with his sword arm cradled in his other hand.  
Raphael dismounted some way from Dean, walking swiftly through the white dust, kicking it up in the breeze like a child would. Like he knew how much his flippancy was causing Dean to lose his resolve. Dean’s knees were trembling, but it was likely undetectable through his armour.  
The crowd were chanting, clapping, stamping their feet. Raphael was so close now, Dean could see the blaze of his eyes through his visor. Raphael raised his sword to attack Dean, who couldn’t do the same. And then―  
Chevy placed herself between Raphael and Dean, hooves stomping up the dust. Dean could feel her footfalls under his own feet, thudding through his boots, up through the sand. Raphael gave a frenetic laugh, and before Dean could make any move at all, Raphael swiped his sword at her knees, and she _screamed_.  
Dean had never felt such impassioned fury in his life. He walked right around his fallen horse, blade raised, not feeling the pain of his injury. He swiped at Raphael, at his neck, his loosened side buckled, at his hips. Raphael stabbed back, Dean parried easily, driving the angel back, forcing his feet as he forced his sword.  
“Nobody - fucking - hurts - my - _horse_ ,” Dean seethed, never stopping his attack. It felt like his sword was flying through the air, weightless, like it was guiding his arm. The power it drove at Raphael was flowing down his arm and charging his every footstep; he could see the fear in Raphael’s eyes.  
Dean wanted to laugh but his horse’s pain still was heavy as a stone inside him, and he kept on fighting. It was a second before he realised it wasn’t his horse’s pain he was feeling, but his own.  
His stomach was twisted like a knot, tight, then elongated, like it was being stretched. His ribs were cracking in his armour, his heartbeat was rough and uneven. Blood began to pour from his mouth, bitter and metallic. He stopped fighting and fell to his knees - he had no choice; he was dying.  
“You are no match for an angel, Dean Winchester,” Raphael told him, removing his helmet and turning it to the ground. Dean watched it fall and realised Raphael was doing this to him. The angel’s hand was twisting around, with his fingers curled like claws.  
Dean could feel the claws inside him, cutting through flesh. He spluttered, a splash of blood running down his chin and dripping on his armoured hands, turning the silver to a liquid red. Tears filled his eyes, helplessly.  
Raphael looked down at him, like he looked down on everyone. “You are no match for me.”  
Dean’s grip tightened on the sword Castiel had given him. _Have faith, Dean. God works in mysterious ways._  
Dean stood up. He had no idea how he managed it - and by the look on Raphael’s face, he had no idea either. Dean raised his fist with the sword, and dragged it down through the air, pain rushing through him, but it was too much to scream. He could hardly see through the agony, tears blinding, spasms racking his whole body as everything trembled.  
His arm was moving, he could feel it moving, he could feel it hitting its target. Leather, metal, skin, it cut through after each blow, hacking with some unknown magic that seemed to have possessed Dean’s sword. He just followed its movement, let it guide his footsteps.  
He heard the screams of the crowd, encouragement or fear, he wasn’t sure. All he felt was pain and the drive to win, the internal plea not to die just yet, please.  
Finally his vision cleared a little, and he knew he could stop. Raphael’s arm was raised against him in defence, ready to hold off one more blow. His was on his knees in the dust, blood splatter on his face, darker red soaking into the red of his armour-covering. Dean let his sword fall to the floor, the pain so intense he could no longer feel it. He dropped to his knees, then fell back flat on his back, legs sprawling to the side. Through his blinking eyes, he saw the sky, white, grey, and blue, the sun shining weakly on his face.  
He felt death coming down on him like a cloak, like a warm blanket - like peace.  
~  
“Anna! Anna, is he all right?”  
“I got the worst of it, I think he’ll be fine - give him some air, dammit, move them back!”  
“All right, all right! Everyone back! Back!” Gabriel shouted, turned away from Dean’s supine form. Dean groaned.  
“Oh, there we go. Hey, Dean!” called Anna softly, her red hair falling in his face. Her arms were around his head, cradling him.  
“Am I dead?”  
“Not quite. You’ve got a few years left on you, I think.”  
Dean groaned again and let his head fall back, exhaustion braiding every muscle in his body.  
“Hey, handsome,” Gabriel said, head hovering over Anna’s and blotting out the sky. “Everyone’s talking about you.”  
“I’ll bet,” Dean replied, licking blood from his lips. It was long dry, he’d been here a while. “What happened?”  
“What, you missed it too?” Gabriel asked, in mock despair. Then he grinned. “You bit Raffie in the ass, that’s what. And right after he tore your guts out, too. It was awesome.”  
“Mmmf,” Dean grunted, eyelids flickering. Gabriel had a habit of exaggerating. Dean’s thoughts scattered, only dwelling on how Raphael had had him so broken, so beaten. He barely remembered anything that happened after that point, it was all pain. He’d lost, he knew it.  
“Baby!” He shouted suddenly, trying to sit up. “Chevy, what happened to her, is she okay, what―”  
“Hey, hey, cool it!” Gabriel said, a hand on Dean’s chest, pushing him back down into Anna’s arms. “She’s fine, I fixed her. Well, most of her. She’ll be off those legs for a few days, mind.”  
Dean growled. “I’m gonna _kill_ him―”  
“No need, you pretty much already did,” Anna said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “The other angels had to fix _him_ up, he was hurt pretty bad. That’s some kick-ass sword you got there, huh?”  
“What.... oh, that,” Dean muttered, feeling the hilt touching his fingertips. “Cas gave it to me.”  
Anna glanced at Gabriel, and they shared a look. “Magic sword, hm?” Gabriel asked Dean.  
“Oh, no, it’s just―” and then Dean paused. Magic sword. Sword forged in one night by an angel, who for whatever reason had absolute faith that Dean would win? Yeah, Dean had no idea how that one had escaped his grasp. “Um. Maybe.”  
“Take it from me, Deano. You have there, in your hand, a magic sword of _epic proportions_. I’d keep that little factoid under wraps, if I were you.”  
Dean grunted, realising he was no longer wearing gauntlets, and he could touch the ruby in the hilt with a gentle fingertip. “Noted.”  
When Dean was ready to stand up, the angels manoeuvered him through the crowd of stragglers: curious people who had seen everything and were either there to see if Dean was okay, or to see how badly he was injured. As Dean was realising, they were two different things. People patted him on the back in congratulations or condolences, others poked him to watch him flinch.  
Anna seemed to have healed almost all of the damage, for which Dean was very grateful. He leant his weight on her as Gabriel walked ahead, breaking the crowd and letting them walk through in his wake.  
It must have cost Anna a lot of energy, Dean considered. Healing was one of the most difficult and fatiguing powers a fallen angel could use. They didn’t heal like people did; it took them a lot longer unless they used their mojo. Without mojo, Dean figured a broken bone would hole one of them up for several months, while a person could be over it in a matter of weeks. Also luckily for Dean, mojo-healing was transferable to another person.  
The noise of the spectators died out as Gabriel let them to a quieter part of the castle, heading for Dean’s rooms. As they passed through, the courtyard with the fountain was bright and tranquil. Early afternoon sun was dancing on the clusters of expensive imported bulrushes, surrounding the circle of clear water. Dean blinked as they hobbled through.  
“Wait,” he grunted. “Wait here for a bit. I can―” he let out a sharp breath, “I can still feel my bones shifting about.” He winced, and let Anna sit him down on the stone partition between the shaded walkway and the open square.  
“You were very brave, Dean,” Anna soothed, open palm stroking his slightly bloody hair.  
Dean snorted. “I was headstrong. Bravery doesn’t win every fight. I should’ve backed down when I had the chance, save everyone the trouble. Just handed over the Captaincy to Raphael and have it over with,” he said, bitterly. He almost missed the look that Anna and Gabriel shot at each other - one of confusion, then understanding, then just plain impish. From years of knowing both angels, Dean knew better than to ask.  
With a (slightly painful) eye roll, Dean hefted his arm back over Anna’s shoulder and kept walking.  
“The ceremony is tonight, so you’d better clean up before then,” Anna said, eyes on Gabriel as he hovered around, waiting for them. “You have a speech to make.”  
“What the hell do I say in front of all those people, Anna? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be your Captain because I suck - here, have a crappy evil angel instead’?!”  
Anna held back a laugh. “You tell them what a good sport you are, and congratulate Raphael on a good fight. The Priestess was going to have you all do that stuff right after it was over, but neither of you were in any condition to make speeches.”  
“But I don’t want to make a speech,” Dean whined.  
“And you don’t want to turn up covered in blood, either. I’ll run you a hot bath when we get up there, how about that? Scrub that crap off your face.”  
“You make it sound so good, Anna, I could hardly say no, now, could I?” Dean replied, monotone.  
Anna grinned and hefted Dean up the first flight of stairs. “Gabe! You could help!” she shouted at the other angel, who was already up the stairs and toying with the bannister, turning the gold edging into a small grass snake.  
“Nah,” Gabriel said, but when Anna reached the first landing, he took Dean’s other side and together they helped him all the rest of the way to his quarters.  
~  
“Dean, where are your good clothes?” Anna snapped, throwing a clean shirt at Dean as he towelled off his hair. “All you have is muddy black. And...” she held up a slightly damp green shirt, festering algy and patches of dirt clumping all over it, a distasteful expression on her face, “this.”  
“Oh,” Dean said, slipping the black linen over his head. “I meant to wash that.”  
“Where are your servants?”  
Dean screwed up his face, chewing his inner cheek. “Uh.”  
“ _Dean_ ,” Anna sniped, glaring. “Did you sleep with them all _again?_ ”  
“It’s not my fault, they’re always around, and they’re not exactly hard on the eyes―”  
“Dean, if you keep doing this, I am going to have to get you _male_ servants.”  
Dean cycled through a set range of facial expressions, before landing on the one that made him rub the back of his head awkwardly, then slip his hand down and slap it into his lap. “I’m fine without servants anyway. They get in the way.”  
“Okay, really?” Anna challenged, marching over to the bed where Dean was sitting. “When was the last time these sheets were changed?”  
“Uh. Last Thursday.”  
“You know I know when you’re lying, right?”  
Dean flared his nostrils at her and clenched his jaw annoyedly.  
“And this,” she added, walking to a pile of dirty laundry. “Do you even know how to wash stuff?”  
Dean opened his mouth, then thought better of his reply, and slowly shut it again.  
“This,” Anna said, prodding carefully at a stack of food trays, the remains of a week’s worth of food slowly dissolving into itself. A small circle of flies buzzed around it.  
“That’s Larry, the one with the bent wing,” Dean said, pointing.  
Anna had a hard time making her face any more disapproving. “When are you going to find yourself a nice wife, Dean?”  
“You’re seriously going to play that card with me?” he asked, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.  
Anna glowered at him, tempted to hurl the dirty green shirt in his face, except then he’d have to wash said face again. She’d spent enough time trying to get the caked blood off his chin. Dean’s skin looked a bit sore now, and Dean was sure it hadn’t escaped her notice that he kept touching his shoulder where he’d been hit in his fight. She felt sorry for him, really. He was pathetic.  
Anna spent some more time going through his wardrobe, looking for his dress armour. She’d seen him in it a few times, in the rare instances that he actually showed up to special occasions. He wasn’t good among large numbers of people, or doing that ‘mingling’ thing that Gabriel kept insisting he try some time. He was, truly, a lone wolf.  
“Aha!” she cried, dragging a badly-folded black shape out of the back of a pile of clothes, shaking it out. It was much like his regular armour, thin enough to not be a burden, but an extra layer of protection should he need it. It was like a vest, easy to slip over his head and buckle at the sides; the collar wasn’t really practical, but on Dean it looked pleasing enough, jutting up at the back and curving around to a point under the hollow of his throat.  
“Dean, come here,” Anna called, watching him get up from the side of the bed and limp over to her, bowlegs carrying his weight somewhat unevenly. “Put this on,” she said, narrowing her eyes as he winced, when he tried to lift his arms. She helped him buckle it over his shirt, standing back to admire the view.  
This armour had the Guard insignia too, like his training armour, but this one was deeply embroidered with gold, shimmering slightly under the shallow dents, inside which the stitches hid.  
“How do I look?”  
“Not bad,” Anna muttered, knowing full well it was an understatement. Dean knew he looked even better in this get-up than usual, but Anna was not prepared to admit that. “You could’ve hung it up after last time, it’s got creases in it.”  
Dean smoothed the creases down. “Good to go?”  
Anna stared at his clear green eyes and nodded. “Good to go.”  
~  
Dean tried to hide as soon as he’d gotten into the ballroom with everyone else - he’d never found pillars quite this useful before. There were hundreds of people in here, and more arriving every minute. Dean gripped the ruby-embellished sword tightly, again calmed by the feel of it in his hand, the way it fit perfectly. Magic sword. God, he’d never get used to that.  
Speech. _Speech_. He’d never been good with speeches. Especially the polite kind where you tell everyone how dramatically you failed at your job and how happy and honoured you are to have done so.  
Basically, he was going to be lying through his teeth to congratulate Raphael on a job well done. Raphael was Captain now, and Dean was a failure. Dean was not happy about this.  
Dean took deep, calming breaths, and peered around his pillar to survey the assembly of people. There was Rufus, no longer Captain as of today. He’d be handing over his ring. And possibly blessing the new guy, since he was a man of the church now, and qualified to do so.  
Dean swallowed rancorously. Raphael had no right to a blessing. He hurt Chevy, and Dean was not very forgiving toward people who hurt his baby. Oh, and he almost tore Dean apart from the inside. Dean wasn’t happy about that, either.  
Fancily-dressed people wandered around, _mingling_. There were goblets of wine being handed out, and little tidbits of food on trays. Dean craned his neck to follow a tray with his eyes, almost tempted to abandon his hiding spot for something to chew on.  
In his mind, he thanked Anna profusely, for having the presence of mind to have Gabriel bring him a meal once Dean had had a wash. If he still hadn’t eaten, Dean was sure he’d be lying on the floor right now, just as close to death as he had been earlier today. Never again was he going without breakfast.  
Eventually the doors to the ballroom closed, guards on each of the two arched halves. Dean risked looking out again, toward the raised platform where the High Priestess now sat, her white gown flowing out from her like a waterfall. She did look alluring, Dean mused. He’d never really looked at her much before, she was always on a stage or throne somewhere, far away from wherever Dean was.  
Maybe Dean was meant to be up at the front now? Raphael was there, looking slightly battered but otherwise fine, sadly; there was Rufus, and Father Bobby, both decked out in their fancy Priest getup. Dean almost laughed. Bobby looked better in a plain brown robe and a scruffy pair of goat-wool trousers, a wine stain here and there. The white swathes of cloth that drowned his arms didn’t suit him at all.  
Reluctantly, Dean inched through the sides of the crowd, vaguely hearing the muttering, mumbling comments as they talked amongst themselves. He glanced quickly at all the faces he passed, looking for at least one person he recognised. He needed someone to stare at while he made a fool of himself. By the time he was halfway to the front, he’d picked out Balthazar, who slapped Dean jovially on the back and grinned at him. Dean figured the angel hadn’t got the memo about him losing the fight spectacularly, and moved on.  
He found Christian, who excused himself from a conversation to shake Dean’s hand with a neutral expression. Good enough, Dean thought. Virgil, who sneered at him. To be expected. Jody, who beamed at him from afar. Dean glanced back with a questioning expression, but she made no reply, because she was then shoved gently in the shoulder by Anna, who stood at her side. Dean sighed with relief and made his way through the burbling swarm of people to greet them.  
“Evening, ladies,” Dean said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. At least his limp had eased up a bit.  
“Evening, Winchester,” Jody said, a sly smile creeping up one side of her face as she clutched her goblet of wine. At a glare from Anna, she raised it to her face and seemed to be trying to drown her grin.  
“You’re up in a few minutes, Dean. You ready?”  
Dean flicked his eyes to Anna. “The heck do I say?”  
Anna softened her gaze, shoulders slumping gently. “You fought amazingly, okay? There’s nothing to be scared of.”  
“Yeah, except the thousands of people staring at me with their judgemental little eyes,” Dean snapped, snatching Anna’s goblet of wine and downing it in one. Jody stood quietly and watched him. Dean handed the goblet back with a small thrust of his hand. “Look, I’m... I’m really sorry, all right? I’m sorry I messed up.” His voice was low and he was too ashamed to look Anna in the eye. “We all have to suffer Raphael’s sick crap now, and...”  
Anna placed a placating hand on Dean’s upper arm, silver eyes warm and loving. “You did fine, Dean. I didn’t want to tell you earlier, because Gabriel was having so much fun torturing you... but―”  
“Hey, that’s not your secret to blab,” Gabriel interrupted, turning up with two wine goblets and hovering a tray of nibbles in front of him. Dean grabbed a goblet and drained that, too - then snatched a handful of dainty pastries and stuffed them in his mouth.  
“Gabe, you should tell him,” Jody said, nodding her head sideways toward Dean. “You can’t have him going up there not knowing.”  
“I sure could, you know I could,” Gabriel replied, mouth full.  
“What don’t I know?” Dean asked, apprehensive, but with good reason. Last time Gabriel pulled this one on him, he was down with bull-inflicted injuries for almost a week.  
“That you actually―”  
“Anna!” Gabriel barked, spraying crumbs onto her formal armour. Dean watched them bounce off and onto the stone floor.  
Trumpets sounded the start of the ceremony, and the High Priestess stood up to a wave of applause.  
“What don’t I know?” Dean repeated, louder into Gabriel’s ear, covered by the sound of applause.  
“That you won!” Gabriel shouted to Dean’s face with a jaunty grin. “You’re Captain!”  
The applause continued and fuzzed in Dean’s brain as he tried to process this information. “I... what?”  
The crowd died down as the High Priestess began to speak in her warbling voice, but Dean zoned it out in favour of whispering insistently to the angels and Jody, who were all smirking at him.  
“When did that happen? Raphael had me, he beat me!” Dean hissed, trying to keep his head down so the Priestess didn’t see him talking over her.  
“Priestess Masters didn’t think so,” Anna whispered back, leaning around Gabriel’s hovering tray to see Dean. “It was near enough a draw by the end, anyway.”  
“Why’d she pick me?” Dean mumbled, frowning. His stomach was turning. He had no idea what to say to everyone before, but now? His brain was empty of everything except questions.  
Anna only shrugged and straightened up, her red hair disappearing behind Gabriel’s chipmunk cheeks. Jody reached forward and tapped Dean on the back. “You have a neat horse, by the way,” she said in an undertone.  
“Thanks,” Dean said, looking back with a grin at her brown bob-cut hair and motherly eyes. “She’s my baby,” he added, pride lining every syllable. Jody nodded like she understood. He really loved that horse.  
“―without further ado, I present to you, our new Captain of the Guard, Dean Winchester!” the Priestess called out, beaming at her subjects. “Dean, I know you’re here! Do come up, won’t you?” she said, and Dean slowly pulled up to his full height to peer over the heads in front of him, who were looking around for the elusive Winchester man.  
“Go on!” Gabriel said, shoving Dean. Dean swallowed and edged through the parting bodies in front of him, making his way to the platform. Applause began as soon as he stepped up, the Priestess’ hand warm through the black linen of his arm. He scanned her eyes and studied the dark brown hair hanging in decorative ringlets around her round face. There was gold in her hair, slim rings around thick locks. She smiled at him.  
“Dean has a few words to say before we gift him his new place in the Guard, the one he so valiantly earned.” She spoke clearly out to the sea of faces that stared up at them, her voice rising and falling like a song.  
Dean gulped and turned to the crowd. Raphael was glaring at him, he could feel eyes burning into his side. “I.. uh...”  
“A little louder, sugar, the front row can’t quite hear you,” she said to him quietly. He could hear her smiling around her words.  
Dean looked around desperately, he’d lost his friends in the masses of unknowns. There was no Balthazar, no Jody, no Anna, no Gabriel. No Cas.  
He squeezed his hand around the hilt of the sword Castiel had given him, trying not to look at anyone directly. He stared at the back wall, where a huge white banner hung down, gold thread shining bright in the sunset glow from the windows.  
“Um. This―” he took a deep breath and turned the volume up to full, as loud as he could be without shouting. “This is a great honour, one that, I, uh, honestly didn’t think I deserved.” He swallowed hard. He could do this all with stock phrases and a list of clichéd thank-yous, right?  
“I want to thank you all for such an opportunity, an opportunity to prove myself...” Dean’s voice cracked and he trembled, but he swallowed and carried on, feeling his throat peeling itself raw with the effort of thinking and speaking at the same time. “Prove myself to all of you people here, that I am worthy of serving as Captain to the band of warriors who fight for this city, who fight to protect you all.”  
Dean took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn’t going too badly, this was good. This was _good_. “I want to thank you for supporting us, every one of you. Thank you to Her Grace Priestess Masters,” he said, turning to her and watching her as he spoke: she smiled politely, her weight on one hip and arm across her middle to hold her elbow, a hand daintily held over her heart.  
“And thank you to the rest of my Guardsmen,” Dean continued, staring out at the unrecognisable faces that stood and looked at him, and just kept looking and looking.  
Oh, there was Anna, with her flame of red hair. How could he have missed that?  
“Thank you Anna,” he said, smiling a slight, throwing his arm out to gesture at her warmly, “without whom I would still be lying in the middle of the arena bleeding my guts out.” For whatever reason, the assembled hordes laughed at that. Dean, while wondering why they found that funny, was pleased that they were actually listening to him.  
“Um. A-and, lastly,” he began, chewing the back of his lip. “Thank you to an angel, without his help I would have surely lost. I don’t think he’s here today, but, he, uh, he helped me. A lot. Um, so, thank you Ca―”  
Dean spotted Gabriel shaking his head violently, eyes wide in warning. Dean hesitated.  
“Thank you Gabriel,” Dean finished, throat tight. “Uh... that - that’s it,” he said to Priestess Masters, who was already clapping. The crowd followed suit, applause filling Dean’s head again.  
He was ushered to a kneel in front of the Priestess by a pleased-looking Rufus, who put his hand to his finger and slid a ring off it, twisting it over his knuckles.  
The audience hushed as Rufus held the ring up in the last light of sunset. It glinted once in the final ray of orange, before the sun dropped behind the mountains and the room was plunged into a pinkish shadow.  
Rufus spoke slowly, his deep voice cool and full in the gigantic hall. “I present this ring, on behalf of the Guard of Zamreer, to Dean Winchester, our new Captain.” The ring slid over the second-to-middle finger on Dean’s right hand, quite loose, but tight enough that it wouldn’t slip. Dean peered at the white band for a moment, still warm from Rufus’ finger. Then he stood, to another round of applause.  
Quietly, Rufus spoke again, only to Dean: “I couldn’t imagine anyone better for this, Winchester. Bear it well and prove me right.” Dean only nodded, twisting the new ring with his thumb.  
Dean turned, beaming at the people clapping at him. For him. Yeah, that was kinda awesome.  
He was going to _own_ this.  
~  
Dean got back to his quarters some time after dark - he’d had multiple offers for drinks from his friends and from strangers, but he had turned them all down, because all he really wanted to do was fall into a bed and sleep.  
So, that was what he did. He spent all of ten minutes undoing Anna’s overly cautious knots on his armour, then threw it on the floor distastefully, taking his boots off and hurling himself under the blankets.  
He thought he would fall asleep right away, but his mind took a while to settle.  
He was Captain of the Guard. It was one of the most honoured roles in the castle of Zamreer. He could use this, he thought. He could use this to turn the way people saw the Guard around. Rufus hadn’t done too badly as Captain, but what was doing the damage was letting Guards like Raphael wander around the town and never show up to training, because, as Raphael had claimed numerous times, he had no need to train. Dean begrudgingly acknowledged it was probably true. But the fact that nobody was watching Raphael was the problem. He was allowed to do what he liked, never even a slap on the wrist.  
Dean’s mind trailed back to this evening, at his speech. He smiled into his pillow, proud of himself for not looking like a complete idiot. Raphael’s speech had not garnered the same amount of respect, which Dean was also pleased about. Apparently Raphael was under the impression that Dean was to be compared with a young colt that needed breaking in. Gabriel did not take kindly to that, and had booed loudly. After a few people in the crowd laughed, and a few more boos, it was pretty clear that Dean was truly the more popular of the two.  
And Castiel. He hadn’t been there, which Dean was more than a little disappointed by. He’d have liked to have seen him be a part of one of the finer moments of Dean’s life, for whatever reason. It would have been nice to see those sharp blue eyes among the wash of nameless faces, to see him give some encouragement.  
And to be able to thank him properly.  
Dean hadn’t seen him since he saw the white-clothed figure in the window, as Dean had rounded his horse to charge.  
And what a horse. He’d had her looked over before the ceremony, and could determine that she was fine, if in need of the horse equivalent of bed-rest. He had hugged her for a very long time, before Gabriel had pulled him off and declared that he would catch ‘horse cooties’ unless he moved away.  
Dean sighed and rolled over, burying his nose in his blanket. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.  
~  
Dean’s first day as Captain didn’t go as planned. This was largely due to the fact that Dean had not planned anything.  
Gabriel was off with a hangover, surprise surprise. He’d probably been drinking on Dean’s behalf, no doubt. Anna showed up, but it was clear it was only because she wanted to make sure Dean knew she was supportive. When he saw the bags under her eyes, he sent her home. He supposed her tiredness would have been caused by the sheer amount of healing she’d had to do for Dean yesterday.  
Dean surveyed his final attendance: Jody (smiley), Balthazar (black-eyed and hungover), Virgil (grumpy), Roy, Christian, Inias (quiet), Hastur (irritable), and a few assorted other angels and humans whom Dean had yet to get to know properly. He knew their names, faces, and their fighting strengths and weaknesses, but that was as far as it went.  
Of course, Raphael was absent, but Dean hadn’t expected anything else.  
Dean paced in front of the small line-up, kicking at the white sand. “All righty, troops. I guess we gotta make the most of today. As your new Captain―”  
Dean paused for a moment because Jody, Balthazar, Inias, and three or four others were clapping. “All right, enough,” he snapped, not hiding his smile.  
“Now we have a lot to get through, I haven’t seen a lot of you guys with the throwing stars. I think we got a new batch in, so be careful because they’re still sharp. I don’t quite trust you with flying pointy things, not naming names, Christian and Inias.  
“All right...” he trailed off, nodding up at Jody. “Let’s get the target boards out, have a round at that.” His tiny legion began to disassemble, heading for the equipment shed. “And no stabbing each other, you hear me?” he shouted after them.  
He let out a huff of air, rubbing his bare hands together. He’d actually have to put a battle plan together, so to speak. These people needed more than just training, they needed discipline and control. Dean wasn’t sure he could provide that, but he could sure as hell try.  
~  
Everyone took a long break for lunch, but Dean didn’t head for the food, despite the abuse his stomach was screaming at him. Instead he cornered Balthazar and pressed him for information.  
“Have you seen Cas?”  
“Ah, our elusive reclusive pretty-boy angel. I haven’t, actually,” came the smooth reply, as Balthazar straightened after putting a wooden target away. He was a half-inch shorter than Dean but at least three times as smarmy. “Have you checked that bat roost he’s prone to skulking in?”  
“I wouldn’t be able to find that if I tried,” Dean admitted. The castle was astonishingly, immeasurably large, and despite having traipsed up to the garret once, Dean had no doubt that he’d be lost before he was halfway there.  
“The library?”  
“Again, I have no friggin’ clue where that is.”  
“You should brush up on your sense of direction, dear Captain,” Balthazar crooned, a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean knocked it off. At least his injury didn’t hurt any more. “I’d hate to be lost in the woods with you, no matter how good a shot you are with a crossbow. In fact, that’s really more of a reason to avoid it.”  
“I’m glad you understand how much I would enjoy shooting you, and yes, I will take that as a compliment. But any more sucking up and I will hold you in contempt. Now, please, tell me somewhere I could find Castiel, that _I actually know how to find_.”  
Balthazar sighed, as if resigning himself to giving up a secret. “Have you tried the bell tower, he likes to stand up there and _look_ at things,” he said, clear that he considered the mere thought strange.  
“Oh,” Dean said, suddenly light on his feet and ready to go. “Thanks, I’ll check.” He headed back across the courtyard, toward the castle. “Oh,” he turned back, one last chip of wisdom to impart: “Work on your footwork, you get wobbly on your downswing,” he said, miming Balthazar’s sword movement and an uneasy foot.  
Balthazar nodded, taking it as a suggestion rather than criticism. Oh, if only the rest of his Guardsmen were so easy to instruct, Dean lamented.  
Rushing across the courtyard, Dean squinted his eyes against the sun rebounding off the pale dust on the ground. There was only a thin layer, underneath it was hard compact clay; it was good for soaking up blood, and easy to replace. Dean passed the place he’d fallen, broken and bloody, the previous day. The sand was white and clean, not a trace of the smeared red pool he’d left behind.  
Dean rounded the corner of the castle, chasing the air down the sides of courtyards, heading for the church. He reached it in a matter of minutes, sweltering under his training armour. Black leather and springtime sunshine weren’t really compatible if you wanted a regular temperature.  
Aha! There was a figure in the bell tower, leaning on his arms and looking over the maze of gardens and curtilages, monks and commoners and lords, all going about their business. Dean came to the side of the church, locating the wooden staircase that led in a spiral to the single bell in its roofed house.  
Dean began to climb. It was a long way up; the church was a tall building - tall enough that when they were singing, the single, harmonised voice of the choir would echo like it was neverending, and the sound would oscillate and undulate like a hundred wolves howling at the moon. Now, though, it was silent.  
He was out of breath when he reached the top, and leant forward with his hands on his knees, puffing air into his lungs.  
“Hello, Dean.” Castiel didn’t even have to look at him to know who it was.  
“Hey, Cas.”  
The view up here was spectacular. Dean went forward and rested his arms on the side wall like Castiel did, taking in the hive of bees that was the grounds of Zamreer. Green blossomed among the white and gold, thin shadows blue in the midday sun. Out to Dean’s left was a second building connected to the church; part of the castle, he assumed. He barely recognised everything from up here.  
“Wow,” he breathed. “This is pretty―” he sighed. “This is pretty cool, Cas.”  
“The view from the garret was even nicer, should you have actually taken the time to look at that,” Castiel replied, perhaps somewhat playfully.  
“I’ll take a look next time. You’ll have to show me how to get there, though. Balthazar’s not impressed with my homing pigeon skills.”  
“I believe Balthazar had trouble finding the correct end of a sword at one point.”  
Dean laughed. “I’m using that against him, I hope you know that.”  
Castiel smiled, eyes crinkling. The sun threw the crinkles into sharp relief, which Dean was sure made him look even happier.  
“I didn’t see you at the ceremony last night,” Dean mentioned, turning away from the expansive view and converging his attention on Castiel completely. The smile had fallen off the angel’s face, carried away on the breeze.  
“I don’t go to social events.”  
“Well, lucky you. I’d give an arm and a leg to not have to do them - not literally,” Dean added, seeing Castiel’s sharp look of horror. “I’ve come close to losing limbs too many times to give them up for anything.”  
Castiel smoothed his face over and glanced to Dean’s mouth, where a small smile played at his lips. “Gabriel tells me you came very close to mentioning me in your speech,” the angel said, eyes meeting Dean’s. Dean could see happiness there, even without the smile.  
“Yeah, if he hadn’t suddenly started jumping about trying to make me stop talking, I would’ve. What’s he got, something against me saying your name?”  
Castiel pressed his lips together and glanced to Dean’s shoulder. “He was right to stop you. I don’t think the Priestess would be too pleased to find out that... I...” He trailed off and bit his lower lip, forcing himself to silence.  
“She doesn’t control you, Cas. You can make friends, you can have a life. Besides, it’s not like she would stop you. She’s pretty nice, right?”  
Castiel stared into the middle-distance, squinting. Then he nodded. “She is often very pleasant company.”  
“So there. Live a little.”  
And with that, Dean climbed over the stone partition and onto the roof of the church-adjacent building, boots flat on the slanted white slates.  
“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked him, considerably alarmed. “You’ll fall!”  
“Not if you catch me, I won’t,” he said, spreading his arms out and taking a few steps forward along the long point of the roof, headed for the next building along.  
“I’d have to use angel mojo, Dean,” Castiel said, peeved. “You know I’m not allowed.”  
“And that, is precisely the point,” Dean replied, turning back to grin at Castiel. Castiel frowned deeply, hands gripping the stone wall between them.  
“I will not use my power for you, Dean.”  
Dean leaned dangerously to one side, one foot lifted off the flat. Immediately he felt a cushion of air around him, pulling him back upright. He grinned pointedly.  
Castiel glared daggers at him. Then he too put a leg over the partition and climbed over, feet upon the rooftop. It sloped away from their feet on either side, not too steeply, but steep enough that a misplaced foot would send them tumbling to the ground, about the height of ten men below them.  
“You are a very reckless man, Dean Winchester.”  
“I pride myself on ‘daring and willing to try anything once’, actually.”  
“You have no grasp on the consequences of your actions, and you don’t care who or what you endanger by carrying out said actions.”  
Dean turned around, his back to the angel, and kept walking, arms out to the sides like a scarecrow. “I’m not scared, is all.”  
“If I were not here, you would be scared.” The voice came from right behind Dean, so he knew Castiel was following him.  
“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be on the roof. It’s a stupid place to be. I could fall at any minute.” He could practically feel the heat of Castiel’s glare on the back of his head.  
Dean tested his footing again, deliberately slipping, daring Castiel to catch him. He did. But with his arms, not with his mojo. Dean felt a strong grip pulling him back to upright, first on his arm, then steadying him by his hip.  
“Please stop trying to make me save you.”  
“Sometimes it’s nice to be saved,” Dean said, quietly. His eyelids flickered. Then, he turned to continue on his way along the roof.  
They stumbled along in silence, Castiel less than an arm’s length behind. Ahead of them was another roof, one that crossed parallel to the one they walked. They were just past halfway there before a crossbow arrow whistled between Dean’s legs as he took a step.  
“What the―” Dean looked down and spied a dark shape on the sandy ground, a crossbow in hand. “CHRISTIAN!” he yelled, feeling a levelling hand on his armoured hip as he turned to face the minuscule man below them. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?”  
“Captain?” came a tiny, tiny voice.  
“WHY ARE YOU SHOOTING AT ME?” Dean demanded. The volume of his voice was deafening even to his own ears.  
“I thought you were an assassin,” came the reply, crossbow slumping pathetically.  
“IF I WERE AN ASSASSIN, WHY WOULD I BE ON THE ROOF IN BROAD DAYLIGHT?”  
“Need I remind you, Dean, that as Captain of the Guard, you have no better reason to be on the roof in broad daylight than an assassin might,” Castiel said from his side.  
Dean huffed. Christian’s reply had been lost, but Dean couldn’t care less. “GO PRACTISE WITH THAT CROSSBOW, CHRISTIAN, YOUR AIM IS TERRIBLE.”  
Christian shrugged the crossbow over his shoulder and stalked off, eyes still on Dean and his white-clothed companion. Dean let out a sigh, shaking the collar of his armour to let some cooler air rush against his overheating chest. He began to walk again, one foot in front of the other, balancing his steps.  
With a hefty, slightly wobbly leap, Dean scrambled up onto the next roof, crossing over the peak and coming to a stop on the other side. There was a short wall here, a stumpy barrier between the edge of the roof and the long drop to the ground below. Dean didn’t dare to look over. He hated heights with a fearful passion.  
Castiel came to stand on his left, and Dean, with his feet against the barrier, sat down on the roof. He looked out across the green fields before him, past the towers and turrets of other castle buildings. There was a long road out of the city, through the drawbridge and the endless wall that surrounded the citadel. Castiel sat down too, bare feet pressed to the parapet as well.  
“Don’t your feet hurt?” Dean asked.  
“No.”  
“Oh.”  
Dean took in a breath, inhaling only clean air, which carried with it the sweet smell of blossoms and new leaves. The hubbub of the castle also drifted up on the breeze, a tinkering hammer in the background, the casual laughter of a woman. Perhaps there was merit in just sitting quietly and listening, Dean thought. It really was very satisfying.  
On a sudden - reckless - whim, Dean leaned forward to take a look over the side of the roof. His stomach flipped at the sight: nothing but air and distance between them and the flat, sandy white ground. Dean leaned back and caught the gaze of Castiel, who was eyeing him curiously.  
“Cas,” Dean started, his voice almost a whisper, so as not to disturb the ambience of the moment.  
Castiel positively beamed at him at the sound of his name. Dean chuckled lightly. “You like the nickname, huh?”  
Castiel nodded, once. “You know,” he said, parting his lips again to speak, “the part of my name, ‘tiel’... it means ‘of God’. Priestess Masters named us, perhaps they were our names in Heaven, also.”  
“But... I took the ‘tiel’ off your name. Doesn’t that make you, like―”  
“Yours.”  
Dean’s train of thought stopped as his mouth was half open to say something. His midriff was tingling strangely. He should probably eat something, he decided. He closed his mouth and swallowed, looking at the barrier again. Could he dare?  
“Uh, Cas?”  
“Yes, Dean.”  
“If I jump, would you catch me?”  
“Why, of all the reasons in Heaven or on Earth, would you want to jump?”  
Dean’s nervous smile broke into a grin that only found one half of his face. He looked at Castiel directly, surely. “I’m gonna do it.” He stood up.  
Castiel shook his head in disbelief. “There is something wrong with you, Dean.”  
Dean swallowed, knowing he should be far more terrified. “When I fall, make it do that epic booming noise yours did, and the stopping right above the ground,” he suggested, hands moving to illustrate the plummet to the ground and hovering just before the flat of his palm.  
Castiel stood up too. “Dean, _why_ , in the name of God Himself, do you want to fall? You’re human, you have instincts against that sort of thing. You would die, Dean.”  
“You wouldn’t let me,” Dean said, grinning like a madman. Perhaps his hunger had gone to his head; he felt quite wild.  
“Besides, Cas. I don’t want to fall. I want you to catch me.” And he held out his hand for Castiel to take. “Oh, and you’re coming with me,” Dean told him. There was no way he was jumping by himself.  
Castiel seemed like he didn’t know what to feel. He hesitated, but then took Dean’s hand. Their palms slid together, fingers curling around each other, locked in a solid, reassuring grip.  
Castiel’s face was fluttering with emotions, none of them pinned down. He swallowed. “I’ve never used this trick with another person,” he confessed. “And myself, I’ve used it rarely. The day I met you, that was only the second time.”  
“Try everything once, twice if you like it?”  
Castiel gave a shaky nod. “I... I’m certain that I can... I can catch us both.”  
“That’s the spirit.”  
“I’ve never used that much power all at once.”  
Dean rubbed a soothing circle on Castiel’s hand with his thumb. Castiel’s eyelids flickered at the touch. Dean realised that the tiny caress, while a small gesture, was probably the most intimate touch Castiel had ever received from another person.  
Dean swallowed and looked at their joined hands. “Cas?”  
“Hm?”  
“Don’t tell anyone about the hand-holding.”  
Castiel seemed to understand why, nodding again. “I like how we fit together,” he said, voice so low it was almost imperceptible in the slow rush of air around them. “Your sword, the shape of the hilt - it was forged and measured from my hand... I learned your hands when we touched the first time. And I made your sword from the hollows of my own.”  
Dean’s free hand wandered to the sword at his belt. Yes, he could feel that. He could feel Castiel’s grasp in the handle, fitted so perfectly around his own. “Thank you,” Dean whispered.  
“You are welcome, Dean.”  
Dean sucked in a long, long, breath, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hand. “On three?”  
Castiel nodded.  
“One.”  
Castiel placed a bare foot on the divide between roof and air, toes shuffling. Dean mirrored him with his boot.  
“Two.”  
Dean’s heart was thudding, halfway frightened and thrilled; excitement coursed through him like lightning.  
Dean paused for a spell, not sure if he could say it.  
“Three,” Castiel said, and launched them over the parapet.  
They fell like they’d been hurled from the heavens themselves, like droplets of rain forced from the sky by a thunderstorm. Dean took a few frantic heartbeats to realise he was screaming, arms and legs thrown out to his side, his hand still clutching Castiel’s. They plummeted, down, down - the ground was rising to meet them, Dean’s guts left behind about half a world above them.  
And then it all stopped with a crack of thunder, the ground held in stasis like it was a drawbridge stuck on the final rung before it closed.  
They were hovering for only a moment before Dean felt the force holding them drop, and they tumbled the last foot, as easy as falling out of bed. Dean landed with his knees in the dust, hand holding his face from the ground instinctively. He collapsed, front flat to the ground, head turned to Castiel.  
He let out an exhilarated huff of breath, a cloud of white particles rushing from his face off of the floor. Castiel was looking back at him, eyes blazing with delight. His hand shook in Dean’s gentle grip as he laughed; it came as a rumble from his throat, eyes half-closed as they held contact with Dean’s.  
Dean couldn’t help but laugh too. Euphoria burned him, and he let go of Castiel’s hand and rolled onto his back toward the angel, so their sides were pressed together. Castiel didn’t turn, but closed his eyes and listened to Dean’s huffs of relief and joy as he looked up at the building they’d just jumped from.  
“Wow,” Dean breathed, dusty white hand to his forehead. “Dude, that was incredible.”  
“You boys just gonna lie there, or come in and eat?”  
Dean sat up on his elbows, recognising the airy voice. “Missouri?”  
“The one and only,” said a plump black woman, her eyes twinkling. “I made pie,” she offered, turning to go back inside the door she’d just come through.  
Castiel rolled over then, sitting up in the dirt and gazing at the open door in wonder. “How did she―?“  
Dean cracked another grin, getting to his feet and presenting a hand for Castiel to pull himself up. When he was standing, Dean answered. “Missouri’s a psychic,” he said. “And she is _awesome_.”  
~x~  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam interrupted. “You know _Missouri?_ ”  
“ _You_ know Missouri?”  
Sam nodded, grinning at Dean from the back of the horse. “Yeah. Missouri’s _awesome_.”  
“I know, right?!” Dean replied eagerly. “Did she ever give you a pie?”  
“Best thing I ever tasted.”  
“It was the cherry pie, right? Tastes so good, make a grown man cry.” Dean shook his head wistfully. “God-damn.”  
He picked his way carefully over the dash of rocks and misshapen ferns on the forest floor, leading his horse by the reins. Sam finally got to sit up top for a while, but Dean didn't seem to mind. Sam decided that the guy was starting to grow on him. He was a good storyteller, and he had a sense of humour. He was good company, really.  
“All right, so what next, she read your palm or something?”  
“Patience, dude, I’m getting to that.” Dean rolled his eyes a slight when Sam huffed. “Okay, where was I...”  
~x~  
The kitchen was dark, but once Dean’s eyes adjusted from looking at the bright sky, he saw what could only be called an organised chaos. There was clearly a system: a few people moved between tables and work surfaces, stoves and fires - carrying pots, sweeping the tiled floor. On top of the tables was a mess of food; uncooked vegetables, leafy greens and lumpen roots stacked as high as Dean’s head. Pots bubbled on side burners, hooked over the flames, too many hanging on one line, but somehow it all managed to stay balanced.  
“You cook for the whole castle in here?” Castiel asked in disbelief.  
“Well someone’s gotta do it,” came Missouri’s reply from another part of the room, hidden behind a washing station of several hundred brown-white plates, and thousands of gleaming silver utensils piled up next to it like a sharp, shiny mountain.  
It smelled delicious; foreign, familiar, and altogether mouth-watering - and Dean clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed. Castiel was craning forward, angled precariously over a table covered in spices, laid out in straight lines. He breathed in, and Dean saw his grubby feet leave the floor as he leaned on his hands. Then he dropped back to the tiles, turning to Dean with a pleased look on his face.  
Dean gave a tiny eye roll and gave in, going to take a tiny sniff at the rows of peppers, or whatever they were - a burn filled his nose, and he coughed.  
“You cough on it, you eat it,” Missouri said sharply, shuffling forward with her hands full of a round dish, a perfect crust in a curve over the top. “And you don’t want to be eating one of those things,” she said at the spices. “You’ll burn your throat out just by getting too close.”  
Dean wheezed.  
Missouri served out a slice of pie for each of them, herself included. She handed the men a full plate each, shooing them over to the other side of the kitchen with a fluttering hand. They passed the heat of three roaring fires, a bread oven the size of Chevy, and a bunch of people shouting instructions in presumably a different language. ‘Parmesan cheese’ and ‘aubergine’? Those weren’t real things, surely.  
Castiel hesitated, then sat down opposite the woman, on a wooden-slatted chair. He took up about half as much of his seat as she did on hers. Dean took the third chair, sitting with his back to the steamy tumult of the kitchen.  
“So, what brings you here today, Captain?” Missouri asked Dean, and he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, slightly irked that she already knew full well what brought him here.  
“Dean decided to jump off a roof.”  
“He always was an impertinent child,” Missouri said gently to Castiel, who, Dean was even more irked to find, was smiling.  
Dean took a defiant mouthful of pastry, and straight away stopped frowning. His jaw would have dropped open from shock, were he not afraid of misplacing even a single crumb of this ridiculously delicious thing. “Ohm my gob,” he mumbled around his tongue. “D’ash amayshing.”  
“Isn’t it?” Missouri purred, radiating a smile at him.  
Castiel tasted his with the tip of his tongue, swiping a blob of red gloop into his mouth. And then promptly assaulted his slice with his fork, cramming a giant lump between his lips and taking a full minute to savour it.  
It was like someone took cherries and turned them into a … well, a pie. That was really enough to explain it, in Dean’s book. There was no such thing as a bad pie. This one was just... _unbelievable_.  
There were a few minutes of silence in which Dean did nothing but enjoy himself, not caring that people might be watching when he licked his plate. When he set it back on the table with a light clank, Castiel across from him was making sweet love to his fork, pulling it gently out from between his tight lips, then setting it down on the edge of his own barren plate. Dean glanced over to Missouri to find she hadn’t even touched hers, but apparently had been watching he and Castiel the whole time.  
“You gonna eat that?” Dean asked, reaching over the table. Missouri slapped him and he withdrew, touching the skin of his hand gingerly. That was to be expected, Dean mused. She did that every time. Any excuse to hit him, really.  
“Now,” Missouri deliberated, placing her elbows on the table, one hand over the other. “I see Castiel here is getting to know the world through your eyes, isn’t that right?” She said it less as a question, than a statement that he wouldn’t dare to disagree with.  
“Yes ma’am,” Dean said, putting his hands in his lap to stop them wandering over the table and picking at Missouri’s pie crust. It had just the right amount of sugar on it, just the right amount of crunch in the pastry.  
“How do you know my na―?“  
“Psychic, Cas. She knows everything.”  
Missouri crooned. “Ohh, not _everything_. But,” she nodded to one side, glimpsing the wide-eyed angel, “near enough.”  
“Dean’s been showing me of all his favourite places. The lower town, and the Tree of Souls.”  
“See anything you like?” the woman asked Castiel, eyebrows raised a fraction.  
Castiel nodded. Dean thought he almost looked like a child being questioned about their day at school. He seemed physically small next to Missouri, but Dean knew his power outsized hers by about ten thousand times. He could do what she did, without even trying. Then again, Castiel had used his power so rarely, he probably didn’t even know what he was capable of.  
“Tell me, honey. What was your favourite part?”  
Dean’s eyes flicked between the two of them as Castiel spoke: “Dean bought me some perfume, and we ran on horseback through the lower town. And then we―”  
Castiel stopped himself, and Dean absolutely knew he had been going to tell Missouri about their hands clasped around each other on the rooftop not more than five minutes earlier. Castiel held Dean’s eye for a few seconds more before Missouri cut into Dean’s thoughts.  
“It’s nice to be touched like that sometimes, isn’t it?” she said mildly, like it was a meaningless observation. But Dean could feel the heat rising from his collar, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing at her words. Maybe it was the steam in the kitchen, but... no. Dean knew what was making him all bothered like this.  
He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Anyone.  
Dean swallowed twice in succession, eyes never rising from the leather-pinned cover on the table.  
“It was very pleasant, yes,” Castiel said quietly. “Dean would rather you didn’t know.”  
“I know that’s what he’d rather,” Missouri countered, breaking her hands apart to pick up her fork and shovel some pie onto it. “But sometimes I can’t help knowing things. Just like people,” she said, her mouth full, pointing her fork between Dean and Castiel, “can’t help wantin’ things.”  
Dean rallied through a good number of retorts: he hadn’t wanted anything, he hadn’t meant to touch Castiel like that. But none would come out. Sometimes people can’t help wanting things. Dean didn’t know what he wanted. But, he had to admit, it _was_ nice to be touched like that.  
He hated when Missouri was right. Which was always.  
“As is, there’s a few things Dean hasn’t showed you yet. Very special places.” Missouri looked pointedly at Dean, as if she expected him to know what she was talking about. He shook his head very slightly, eyes wide in an expression of cluelessness.  
Missouri pressed her lips together and grimaced at Dean. “Limn’mere, Dean. Take him there, won’t you?”  
“There?” Dean asked, frowning at her, eyebrows coming together in a curved V. “Why there?”  
“Because, Dean. You tell me.”  
Dean sucked in an irritated breath. Actually thinking about an answer seemed like too much effort when she already knew what he was going to say. As he knew from experience, however, she wouldn’t let him leave until he answered the question.  
Dean searched the air in front of him with his eyes. “Because it’s pretty, because it’s special, because it means a lot to me,” he intoned, blandly. “Because deep down I really want to share it with someone.”  
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Missouri went back to her pie, eyes half closed.  
“What’s Li’meer?” Castiel asked, inevitably.  
Missouri only nudged her head toward the angel, urging Dean to tell him.  
“It’s this... pond, with a waterfall, out in the forest. I used to go out there when I was a kid, still training for the Guard. I used to practise there by myself. It was nice, quiet. Kind of like your empty corridor.”  
“I thought you didn’t like to sit quietly.”  
Dean swallowed. “I don’t. Not any more. I used to.”  
Missouri straightened up, wiping the corner of her mouth with a fingertip. “These things need easing back into. Like anything good, they take time. Like your little tree,” she turned to Castiel.  
“Tree?” Dean enquired.  
“Castiel has a tiny tree, some foreign idea that you can keep it small by cutting the roots.”  
“I’ve been looking after it since it was a seedling. It’ll take years and years to mature. I’m...” he trailed off to flash a glance at the psychic, who nodded at him almost imperceptibly. “I’m quite proud of it.”  
Dean’s mouth turned upward into a smirk. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”  
“I will.”  
Missouri watched them watching each other. She didn’t stop smiling, and Dean couldn’t help but think that she knew something he didn’t. Either that, or she was communicating with Castiel telepathically. Both were annoying.  
“I’ll make you something to take with you tomorrow; drop by before you head out, won’t you?” Missouri offered, a soft brown hand on Castiel’s shoulder as she stood.  
“A picnic?” Dean asked, lip quirking.  
“You don’t mind a salad, do you, Dean?” Missouri asked him. Dean scowled, and it took him until she had walked right around the table and was heading over to a stuttering pot behind him, that he realised she was just trying to mess with him. “Don’t come by too late, Pamela has something for you,” she called, vanishing behind a stack of muddy potatoes.  
And with that, Dean was left staring at the blue-eyed angel, amused by Castiel’s ruffled, windswept hair. It apparently hadn’t settled after their dive off the roof.  
Dean’s stomach just about sated now, he stood up and told Castiel he was heading back to training, and damn, he wanted another bit of that pie. Castiel agreed, and they snuck back to where Missouri had left the round tray. Instead of the rest of the pie, they found two small paper-wrapped packages, each in the shape of a pie slice. Dean grinned, and picked them up, handing one to Castiel.  
“Man, I love psychics.”  
~  
“Deeeeean Winchester,” Pamela said at him, whistling. She had her arms crossed, and looked far more pleased to see Dean than he thought she had any right to be. That said, she couldn’t see him at all, not through her blind white eyes. _That_ said, it was like she was ogling him from all sides. Dean shifted on his feet, standing up straighter.  
“Good to see you too, you look great,” Dean said, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Pamela made him uncomfortable, and she knew it.  
“Always with the blind jokes. It doesn’t make cooking any easier, you know. I can’t get a reading off a copper pot that’s entire life has been leek soup.”  
Dean wasn’t sure what to say to that.  
“Your angel will be along in a minute, he’s just putting on a dab of perfume,” she said with a slightly mocking smile. She somehow must have sensed Dean’s black look, because she laughed, leaning forward and letting her brown hair fall over her face. Pamela loved to laugh, and that was something Dean did have a fondness for. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed,” she said with a slow nod, the smile gone from her face. “There are some things that just won’t do to spread around.” Her grin slowly returned. “Unlike that delightful fragrance of his.”  
Dean flicked his eyes to the sky, blue but lightly clouded - quite a nice day for a picnic, he supposed. Pamela stood in front of the door to the kitchen, boots kicking at the dust gently. Dean tapped his foot, empty of conversation now, but still feeling blank white eyes roaming all over him. Including his rear end, despite him facing Pamela. He had no idea how she did that.  
After a few more seconds, Dean huffed and went to lean on the wall of the kitchen, sandstone cool on his back. Pamela came to lean beside him, arm against the wall so her nose was right near his shoulder.  
“You changed your shirt specially, didn’t you?”  
“Shuddup.”  
Dean could see where the sand was messed up, where he and Castiel had collapsed into it this time yesterday. It had evened out a little, but the impressions were still there, swipes through the dust, blotchy dents where their knees and hands had fallen.  
“You never had a friend quite like him, did you?”  
“I said shuddup.”  
Since meeting Missouri, Dean had fretted about this coming day. Picnics were not exactly in his quota of Things Dean Winchester Spends His Time Doing. Eating, yes. Eating outside, maybe. But eating outside, in a beautiful location, with a burbling stream and excellent company? That was outside his acceptance range.  
He decided that he was only doing this because Missouri would have his head if he didn’t. There were a lot of things he did for this reason, and trying out for Captain was one of them. That hadn’t turned out so bad, and Dean was inclined to trust Missouri come thick or thin. For some reason it just worked that way.  
Around the corner a few silent minutes later, came Castiel, dressed in his blue shirt and brown trousers - but barefoot, the boots he conjured days before nowhere to be seen. Dean pushed himself off the wall, feeling Pamela’s unseeing gaze still upon him as he crossed to the angel.  
“Heya, Cas,” Dean said, moving his hand to pat Castiel on the arm, but chickening out halfway through and instead making an aborted swipe at Castiel’s shirtsleeve with his fingers. Castiel looked down at the tickle, and raised a very subtle eyebrow at Dean.  
Dean wriggled his fingers and pulled his hand up to touch his own ear, hoping that would excuse him. Castiel ignored this completely, going instead to the slender woman leaning by the kitchen door, through which a delicious aroma of roasting meat wafted.  
“You must be Pamela. My name is Castiel,” the angel said, holding out a hand.  
“I know who you are,” Pamela said with a boyish grin. She took Castiel’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. Dean winced.  
“Cas, this―” he started, going forward to gesture at Pamela from her side. “This is when you kiss. Pretty girl, you bow, and you kiss. Shaking’s for the guys.”  
Pamela started to argue, but was her words were drowned by Castiel’s reply: “Oh... I didn’t realise. Perhaps I don’t find her as pretty as you do,” he said to Dean.  
Dean gawped at him. “Wha...”  
Pamela burst into a raucous fit of laughter, clutching her stomach and her mouth open wide with a heavy cackle. “Oh my God,” she breathed, gasping for air. “Oh boy, this one’s a keeper,” she rasped, patting Dean firmly on the chest with an open hand. Pamela left them, and wobbled her way inside on laughter-shaken legs, still huffing with amusement.  
Dean stared at Castiel and Castiel blinked, baffled. Then Dean dropped his chin and grinned, shaking his head slightly. “I can’t go anywhere with you, man,” he said, fondly.  
Cas looked startled at this. “Are we not going to your waterfall in the forest today?”  
Dean looked up and was again at a loss. “No, not - Jesus, Cas, how are you even still alive? You have like, zero social skills.” Dean grinned unabashedly, managing to let his hand pat Castiel’s arm this time. Castiel continued to look nothing but confused.  
“Here, I got you this,” Pamela called to them, returning out into the sunshine with a bundle under her arm. Dean took it, and found that it was a woollen blanket, red and yellow, knitted cross-ways so that where the colours crossed in their lines, they made orange squares. Dean didn’t unroll it more than halfway, and thanked Pamela, still not entirely comfortable with the idea of a picnic. It was a child’s thing, a family outing. It wasn’t for two male friends.  
Castiel leaned over and touched the blanket with his palm, squashing it gently between outstretched fingers. “This is very soft,” he commented, stroking it.  
“O- okay, that’s enough with the fondling,” Dean said, pulling it away. “We should go get Chevy.”  
“Gabriel told me to remind you that Chevrolet shouldn’t be ridden for a few days until she feels better,” Castiel stated, still eyeing the blanket like he wanted to touch it some more.  
“Aw, man,” Dean bemoaned, scowling at the squishy roll in his hands. “We’re taking Lucifer then, I assume,” he said darkly. He was not impressed.  
“I think he would enjoy the ride,” Castiel nodded. He looked over to Pamela, who was watching him with blank eyes, and he nodded again, apparently for her benefit. She grinned at him, corners of her mouth pulled up as if by string.  
“Takin’ the Devil on a picnic. Well that’s a new one,” she said.  
Missouri came out of the kitchen swaddled in her usual brown drapes and shawls. “I packed you both some chicken and potato, and a teeny weeny bit of salad. I know you’re not going to have any, Dean, but Castiel, here - do try and force some down his gullet, honey, I worry about this man’s health,” she said, first to Dean, then to Castiel.  
Castiel nodded dutifully, lips pressed together. He took the wicker basket she gave him, and held it in both hands like it was a birds’ nest or something equally as delicate.  
“Now, hurry back, Dean has training he really ought not to miss. And I know what you’re thinking Dean, and no, you’re Captain now, and must therefore show up to all practices!” She declared, and Dean felt his insides churn. He might love how psychics were one step ahead at all times, but occasionally it was uncomfortable to be at the receiving end of it.  
With a half-hearted wave, Dean stalked off toward the stables, Castiel lagging a good few paces behind from the weight and awkward shape of the basket. Had he been any other angel, the weight wouldn’t have even registered, but this was Castiel, sworn against all things mojo.  
And so Dean sighed, turned around, and played the part of the gentleman, taking the basket - well, he tried. Castiel held on, and so they ended up carrying half each. Dean felt like an utter fool, carrying half a basket and a roll of blanket. He tried to ignore the sly glances that passed their way, curious and possibly a tiny bit mocking, but he might have been imagining it.  
Damn Missouri and her foresighted plans. Dean didn’t like this one little bit.  
~  
Lucifer was a trouble-horse. The stallion had had no proper owner prior to Castiel; for six years he’d been passed from owner to owner, each one impressed by his coat and strong frame, the spirit with which he carried himself, and of course, his sheer size. None of the people had been acceptable enough to the ex-angel that he didn’t get bored of them and throw them from his back when they’d least expected it.  
Castiel enjoyed Lucifer’s company. There was no trace of the evil and corruption he had once owned, and under it all, he really made a fine companion. Lucifer respected Castiel’s acceptance of him, and was even proud to call him a friend.  
Dean Winchester, however, Lucifer was not so sure about. The man was bowlegged and smooth-talking and too swift with a sword for his own good. Castiel, at least, had a firm footing with Lucifer when it came to background: they were all ex-angels here, so there was that base amount of trust.  
Dean wanted to put a saddle on him, which felt all wrong; Lucifer felt like he had no other choice but to bite at Dean until Castiel fitted the saddle instead. Not being able to talk really did make things more difficult.  
Dean set down the blanket under the wicker loop of the picnic basket, leaving the basket on the stool in the corner of the horse stall, for Castiel to hand to him once Dean was mounted. This proved difficult to do, however. Lucifer whinnied and wouldn’t stand still, bucking up gently - not violently - but enough to make it as hard as possible for Dean to mount.  
“Maybe I should ride in front, in the saddle,” Castiel suggested. “Horses aren’t meant to carry two people, at least Lucifer would feel better if it was me steering.”  
“But you don’t know where we’re going.”  
“You could tell me.”  
“I can’t remember, it’s been years. It’s gonna take a bit of wandering around. Follow my nose, that kind of thing.”  
Castiel looked along the muscular body of Lucifer, considering Dean’s words. He put a soothing hand on Lucifer’s side and slid it up toward his shoulders, walking forward with it. He went to look into the horse’s eye, a stern expression on his face.  
“Lucifer, please let Dean ride in front. He won’t hurt you. You can trust him.”  
Dean easily compared Lucifer’s behaviour to that of a skittish child, an abused dog, some poor soul who couldn’t bear to let someone in. Dean even found Castiel’s tone calming himself, and he felt less irritated about the stomping horse. He put a gentle hand on his flank, reassured when Lucifer made no angry move against him.  
Cautiously, Dean tested his weight on his hand, pressed to Lucifer’s back. All fine. Dean put one foot in the stirrup. His other hand on Lucifer’s back. Dean hesitated to put his full weight on the horse, but he did it, and the horse didn’t even flinch. Dean swung his leg over and sat full in the saddle, sliding into place on the leather. He let out a short huff of relief, Castiel whirring quiet praise at his angel brother.  
Castiel handed Dean the basket, then climbed up without a second thought, holding onto Dean’s unarmoured hip and hooking a couple of fingers in his belt, as Dean pressed Lucifer on, out of the stall.  
Dean still expected to be thrown, but once Castiel was behind him, he didn’t think Lucifer would bother; he seemed to like the weirdo too much. Dean chuckled under his breath at the thought.  
“Is something funny?” Castiel asked him, as Dean pushed the horse to a gentle trot, heading for the main drawbridge of the citadel. Castiel had never been this way before, but was less intrigued by new surroundings as he had been previously. He was talking right into Dean’s ear, arms pulled lightly around his waist, each of his hands between Dean’s armpit and his hip.  
“Yeah, it’s just - the horse likes you even more than I do,” Dean grinned, navigating around a stall selling apples.  
Castiel pulled back from Dean a slight, and maybe became a little tense, Dean wasn’t really paying attention. “You don’t like me?”  
“No, I do. That’s what I mean. The horse likes you a helluva lot. Just saying.”  
Silence met Dean’s statement, and Dean, concentrating on manoeuvring the horse, forgot he’d even said anything. A minute later, just as they came into view of the city drawbridge, leading out of the enclosed citadel, Castiel whispered a reply into Dean’s ear. “I like you a lot, too, Dean.”  
Dean didn’t know why, but he shivered. He then considered that he should’ve put another layer on before coming out today. The wind was quite gusty.  
People came in and out of the city all the time, merchants headed for the lower town, Lords and Ladies, doing whatever it was that they did. Monks, from other churches, tradesmen, peasants, everyday people that wanted to see the glorious city of Zamreer. Some came to see the famous angels, the city’s greatest fighters. Nowhere else in the world had a collection of such powerful fallen angels.  
Here, at the drawbridge to the city, was the border between this world, the one Castiel knew and Dean loved, and the rest of creation. It was like a hole in the bubble, pass through it and you’re gone. Sure, you can come back, but you hold the memory that there is, in fact, somewhere to be, other than Zamreer.  
“Dean, may we stop a moment?” Castiel asked, fingernails tight in Dean’s side. Dean looked around but couldn’t see over his shoulder. He pulled Lucifer up to a wall, on the right side of the lowered drawbridge, out of the way of the passing carts and people, and a few other people on horseback. A Guardsman stood on either side of the stone pillars, and the one closest to Dean saluted him as the horse stilled. Castiel jumped down straight away, a hand on Dean’s knee before he swung his leg down and dismounted as well. He tried to speak to Dean, but Dean was already distracted―  
“Captain,” the Guard said, a gangly fellow with awkward cheekbones and a bony frame.  
“Uhhh... Garth, is it?”  
“Yessir,” the man said, dropping his hand back to the hilt of his sword in his belt.  
“Just, um, making a routine inspection. How’s things going down here?”  
“Same as usual, Cap’n. Uh, we had a couple of people trying to smuggle untolled foreign goods inside, we confiscated it all.”  
“What was it?” Dean asked, peering behind him, aware that Castiel was waiting for him.  
“Uhh,” Garth muttered, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Sugar.”  
“Seriously?” Dean squinted. “You’re stopping people bringing _sugar_ in?”  
Garth shrugged non-committally, crumpling the paper back up. “It’s been contraband for years. Nobody thought to change it.”  
“So.. everything with sugar in it is illegal?”  
Garth pressed his lower lip up in an arch. “Pretty much.”  
“All right, new rule, you _let_ the sugar in, all right? Charge them for it if you have to, but... man. That’s just not right.”  
“Got it, boss.”  
“All right.” Dean turned away, mind on edge. _Pie_ had sugar in it. He had to have a word to Missouri about her supplier.  
Castiel stepped out from where he’d been hiding behind Lucifer. Dean glanced at him questioningly. “I don’t want anyone to see me here,” Castiel said under his breath.  
“It’s cool Cas, nobody knows you anyway.”  
“It’s... not that. Dean, I’ve never been outside the city. Until a few days ago I’d never left the castle more than a couple of times.” His voice was grated on his throat, low and nervous.  
“Are you... scared?” Dean asked, not quite ready to believe it.  
“Yes, and very much so.”  
Dean had to admit, it was brave for Castiel to say so. Dean would have shrugged behind denial until he was writhing in his boots - either that, or gotten over it.  
“Cas.” Dean stepped forward and placed two hands warmly and solidly on Castiel’s upper arms, squeezing gently. “You have nothing to be scared of. It’s safe outside as it is in here.”  
Castiel shook his head, like Dean wasn’t understanding him. The angel raised his right hand, the back to Dean, fingers spread. The ring on his finger was delicate silver, a thin snake of white weaving through the middle. _Property of the High Priestess_.  
Dean stared at it, comprehension dawning at last.  
He leaned forward, crowding into Castiel’s space with his hands unhurriedly curling around Castiel’s fingers. He took hold of the ring with two fingers and tugged, wriggling it so it slipped upward, bunching on his knuckle for only a second before pulling free. Castiel didn’t fight him, only watched with troubled eyes.  
“For today, you belong to nobody.”  
Dean had a sudden thought, reaching down to take off his own Captain of the Guard ring from his finger, sliding it off and holding it together with Castiel’s, two circles overlapped on his pale palm. Castiel brushed his fingers over the bands, and Dean felt his fingertips against his hand, the tiniest tingle.  
“We’re free, for today.”  
Castiel took Dean’s hand in his own, cupping it with slender fingers and curling Dean’s fist closed. “Please keep it safe, I can’t lose it.”  
“Heh, me neither. Don’t worry, okay? We’ll be fine.” Dean slipped the rings into his only pocket, a deep V in the right side of his trouser, at his hip. They slid to the bottom and pressed against his leg. He would be aware if they were misplaced, he would feel their loss easily.  
“Now, come on.” They mounted the horse again, Dean giving Lucifer a hesitant pat, before ushering him on through the drawbridge with another quick salute to Garth. Lucifer’s hooves clopped heavily over the wood, then touched on the path through the muddy grass on the other side, and they fell soft and gentle.  
A few minutes down the gritty road with dust rising behind them, Dean left the path and sped to a gallop, heading straight for the trees. He knew the way by heart, mostly. It was only the last part he would get lost at. The trees would have grown since he was last there; odds were, Limn’mere would prove very difficult to find today.  
~  
“We have passed this tree before.”  
“Jesus, I know. And he’s the one with the branches that look like a windmill - I know, I know.”  
“I don’t understand how it’s possible for us to be going in circles if we have only taken a straight path.”  
“This forest is tricky like that, I’m pretty sure it’s haunted.”  
“There are no such things as ghosts, Dean.”  
“There were no such thing as angels, either, until you guys dropped in to say hi.”  
“Angels were part of human lore right from the very start, we are nothing new, and no great leap for the human imagination.”  
“So are ghosts, Cas. Dead people. People died before people learned to dream.”  
“I think you’ll find it’s the other way around.”  
“Well we could sit and discuss this until Judgement Day, Cas - chicken, egg; angel, ghosts, it’s all the same―”  
“No, Dean - I mean turn Lucifer around, it’s through this way. I can hear running water.”  
Dean tilted his head and tugged on the reins to stop Lucifer’s slow clop through the undergrowth. There, he heard it too. “Through here, Luci,” Dean clucked, directing the horse toward the sound.  
Castiel dismounted with the picnic basket, and Dean felt Lucifer's relief as his gait lightened. The horse nickered quietly, shaking his head.  
“This is it, Cas, I recognise this place. It’s just―” Dean jumped off the horse and brushed aside hanging willow branches, stepping around some tall grass that was dotted with fresh blooms. “Just through here,” he said, almost ending with a gasp.  
This place had never looked this beautiful before. It was like within the years Dean had spent away, it had blossomed into a madness of colour, of greens and bright sunlight, grasses and ferns and overhanging leaves, trailing down through the dark, clear water of the pool in the centre. A small waterfall rushed into it from a couple of feet above, splashing happily as it took its two-foot plunge.  
A gigantic rock jutted out from one side of the pool, Dean never had any clue how it had gotten there. He used to enjoy diving off the rock, swimming in the cool water and coming up for air at the small wooden dock on the other side, built by his own hand. The dock stood half a foot above the ripples of the water, but the platform had sunken into the side of the bank, swallowed by a carpet of grass and moss that hadn’t been there in the years before.  
Sunlight, golden sunlight, filtered in from above, greened through the leaves, dappled by their shimmering shadows. Birds sang sweet and happy as they ever did, and Dean felt like all of his burdens were lifted.  
“Welcome to Limn’mere.”  
“Did you name this place?” Castiel asked in wonder, stepping ahead of Dean with his eyes on his bare feet. Dean noticed he was wriggling his toes, perhaps new to the sensation of grass beneath him.  
“Yeah.”  
“ _Limn_ , meaning... to explain something, beautiful, something bright... _Mere_. A shallow lake.” Castiel frowned, toes sunk into the grass. “This is a stream pool, not a mere.”  
“I’m not great with the whole complete geographical accuracy thing. It sounded pretty.”  
Castiel turned back to Dean, eyes dazzlingly blue amongst the surrounding green and gold. “It is indeed very pretty.”  
Dean quirked half his lip into a smile. “That’s it? Very pretty?”  
“There are many things I could say about this place, Dean, but for now, I think ‘very pretty’ will do.”  
Dean settled for that. “Come on, let’s get this picnic over and done with,” he said, reaching for the basket, unfurling the blanket and letting it roll, soft as air, across the grass. It seemed a shame to crush it after its years of peace, but the longer stalks only bent away from where he sat, and Lucifer was quite happily munching on some at the other end of the clearing.  
Castiel stood, halfway between Lucifer and the pool, breathing in deeply. Dean sat and hugged his knees, and just watched.  
He watched the coloured birds flit from branch to branch, possibly the great-great-great grandchildren of the birds he once watched fly about here. He had missed the bubbling sound of the stream leading away from the pool, the rushing of the small waterfall, the way it almost sent him to sleep. But most of all, it was that utter calm he felt, that emptiness that somehow filled the void inside him, filled him with colour and shape and sound, that he simply hadn’t been capable of feeling when training for the Guard, or even when he was just around other people.  
Castiel stood and watched the sky for a while, head tipped back, gold dancing on his face. Dean wondered what he was thinking, but he daren’t interrupt; for all he knew, this was an angel-to-God one-on-one. At least, it looked like it. But eventually, Castiel blinked his eyes open, put his head down, and came to join Dean.  
“Having a little divine revelation?”  
“God doesn’t talk to me, Dean. Not like that, not in words. I see Him, through the beauty of this place. God is in everything.”  
“I see His putting you through hell to put you on Earth didn’t shake your feathers much. Faith still as strong as ever.”  
“Angels have no free will,” Castiel said quietly, shuffling forward over the blanket on his knees, hands in his lap. “As a fallen angel I can choose my path, but my faith is always going to be a part of me.”  
“You can’t choose to forget it?”  
“Maybe I can. But I don’t want to.”  
Dean blinked. He didn’t really understand that. If it wasn’t something you needed, you got rid of it, and unless it got you through the day, it became irrelevant. Sentiment had no place.  
Dean’s stomach reminded them, loudly, why they were there. Dean patted his midriff, then reached over to open the basket. Inside was a feast for his eyes, which instantly translated into feast for his stomach, which promptly began to gurgle louder in anticipation.  
Dean handed Castiel a lump of something meat-like, and realised Cas was doing that thing where he looked at Dean with his eyes and smiled at him without moving his face. Dean’s eyelids flickered distractedly, and he dug into his food without a word.  
They enjoyed their meal in silence, Dean occasionally glancing up to watch the birds, or to watch Castiel watching the birds, or to watch Castiel watching him watching the birds. It took a while to register that he and Castiel were, in fact, simply watching each other. Dean coughed and looked away.  
Of course, their meal ended with a slice of Heaven each. That is to say, pie. Dean chuckled with delight as he pulled them out of the basket, silently blessing Missouri and all her mysteriously devilish ways, and how they always seemed to work out okay for Dean.  
Dean licked his fingers then lay down on the blanket, grass prickling him even through the wool. He could hear it crackling as he turned his head, the compacted dirt harder on the flat of his lower back. The sunlight was dazzling, it glinted at the corners of his eyes like gold dust.  
Dean heard a rustle, then realised it was Castiel coming to lie down beside him. Dean blinked a few times, the back of his hand up to his eyes, watching the bright green of the young spring twigs surge in the breeze above.  
Something inside him apparently decided it was time to stand up again, because a moment later he was on his feet, looking down on the other man sprawled over the blanket. Castiel’s feet had twisted into the corner of it, and he was rubbing it between his toes.  
Dean wiggled his fingers in agitation. He reached for his sword. He just felt like he was in a fighting mood. “You know how to fight, Cas?”  
Castiel sat up on his elbows, not even squinting against the bright daylight. "I've watched you fight. And I know the principles. It should be a natural gift for me.”  
“Here, take this,” Dean said, risking everyone’s reflexes enough that he braved throwing the sword, hilt-first, over to Castiel. He caught it with a fast swipe through the air, palming it neatly. Dean pursed his lips, impressed.  
Dean went to Lucifer’s saddlebag, pulling out his old sword, the one he would have used in his fight against Raphael, had Castiel not presented him with the new one. Perhaps this was sentiment, Dean considered. That he kept this sword, after being handed a better one. His blade had been through so much with him, every battle fought, it was there by his side, in his hand, in his enemy’s throat. It was a loyal weapon, and he couldn’t abandon it.  
“I hereby challenge you, sir, to a duel,” Dean declared, in his most official voice. He pulled his shoulders back like they were tied to a string and tugged straight; one hand on his hip in what he hoped was a menacing but attractive stance. The sword point was sharp into the ground, the straight silver line leading up in a curve through his hand and arm; strong.  
Castiel shuffled to his feet, both hands around the hilt of the red sword; nimble, pale fingers unsurely twisting around the leather.  
“Hold it like I hold it,” Dean instructed, showing Castiel how his fingers fit around the hilt. Dean’s old sword didn’t feel right any more, not after using the one that suited his grip so perfectly.  
Dean waited until Castiel copied his stance, his footwork, his defensive demeanour. Their swords were held at an angle toward each other, hands relaxed away from their hips, blades aimed at each other’s faces. Dean gave a test attack, one quick swipe of engagement, Castiel’s sword knocked from its hovering stance, bruised to pointing off toward the pool. Dean kicked the blanket out of the way, barely taking his eyes of the angel, who had readied his position once more, and was ready for the force that hit his weapon again.  
It didn’t escape his notice that Castiel’s eyes were not on the fight at all, but on Dean. Watching his face mostly, although the blaze of blue did burn a trail down Dean’s thigh once or twice when he sidestepped - but it was like Castiel could absorb everything around him just out of the corner of his eye.  
“You’re not bad,” Dean grinned, sidestepping again and letting Castiel take another attack. Castiel clearly knew what he was doing, even if he was unpracticed with his movements. “You’re as good as your brothers.”  
Castiel huffed, moving forward to slash at the middle of Dean’s blade, forcing him back a foot or so, almost stumbling on a clump of grass. “They’re not really my brothers. Or my family. We only share a species, and a home.”  
Dean parried and blocked Castiel’s attack - blades clashing with a fiercer blow every time, but both of them were still relaxed, neither defensive; enjoying the sparring. “Well that explains Gabriel and Anna then,” Dean muttered. “I thought it was weird, you know? That - uff - that they call each other brother and sister and - hff - they slept together.”  
“I was not aware they saw each other in that capacity.”  
“I think it was a one-time thing? Oh - damn, Cas, you’re improving... how are you―” Dean was being chased backwards like Castiel was a wildcat bearing down on his prey, pressing Dean so far back that his boots stepped into the edge of the lake. He felt the cold lapping at his toes through the leather, but before he got distracted, he ducked a swipe from Castiel and began to drive him back across the grass. “So you’re like nuns, then? Everyone’s a sister.”  
Castiel grunted under his breath as Dean took advantage of his moment of thought, cutting gently at his shoulder, stopping before it hit the angel. Castiel fought back remarkably, bordering on a challenge for Dean. He was learning as they fought, and Dean began to muse that he would never want Castiel as an enemy.  
“Do you have any family, Dean?” Castiel asked, hitting Dean gently on the side of his hip with the flat of his blade.  
Dean again forced himself not to get distracted at this point. It was a simple enough question. Alas, one that the answer to would halt the fight immediately. Dean did not want to stop. So he lied.  
“Yeah, I, uh - I got a mom, dad. Back at home, they came for my ceremony. And, a - a brother.” Dean swallowed, throat tight.  
Castiel’s face remained impassive as he defended another attack. “Tell me about your brother.”  
“Younger. He’s really funny, and smart as hell - good at everything, you know?” Dean said, trying to pat down his emotions, but realising that it was a smile that came up, so he let it escape. A proud grin settled on his face, and he kept on swinging his sword, stepping forward, back, circling over the grass. “He’s doing an apprenticeship, working on being a healer. He’s gonna find the cure for everything.”  
Castiel gave a smile, quick and small. “Everything?”  
Dean flashed a grin and took another swipe at the angel, blade sliding down the fabric of his blue shirt as it knocked against him. Dean coughed a laugh: “You’re letting me win, man, your defences are dropping.”  
Castiel said nothing, turning his movements back to the kind of force that Dean felt was more natural. He figured Castiel didn’t want him to feel bad, being beaten by an angel... again. Especially a novice.  
“What’s his name?” Castiel asked, and it was a couple of seconds before Dean scrounged up an answer.  
“Bobby.”  
Castiel swiped again, “Like Father Sing―”  
“John. Bobby-John.” Dean let out a startled breath, feeling all wrong inside. Suddenly this fight felt uncomfortable, and the air felt cold.  
Castiel beat him in three more steps, slashing and twisting Dean’s sword across his own, coming to hold the red-handled one at Dean’s throat, the angel’s body pressed up against him from behind.  
Dean let out a long breath, warmth flooding back to him, he was back to Earth and was bathed in afternoon sunlight again. He could just about sense the aura of Castiel’s perfume on his wrist, as his hand was at his throat.  
“You let your defences drop, Dean,” Castiel whispered in his ear, lips brushing his skin. He almost growled: “I think you need some practise.” And then he pulled back, sword slipping away from Dean’s throat. Dean swallowed, touching his Adam’s apple as it bobbed.  
“Not bad at all, Cas,” Dean said, quietly pleased that his voice stayed level. “Could make a Guardsman out of you, yet.”  
“I do not wish to fight.”  
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Dean swung his black-handled sword in an arc by his side, well-familiar with the swooping noise it made. “I call this one Wendigo,” he told Cas, holding the sword in front of him and admiring the long and straight of the blade.  
“After a monster?”  
Dean eyed him with a smile. “Monster of a sword, it fit.”  
“What about this one?” Castiel asked him, coming forward to show Dean the mojo’d sword laying flat across his outstretched palms. “This one is made with care and love, and was made to fight for peace and justice. It’s not a monster.”  
“Did you have a name in mind?”  
Castiel’s eyes drifted into the middle-distance, squinting at the waterfall tumbling into the pool. “A day of rest, of peace... Sabbath.” Castiel’s gaze flicked back to Dean’s.  
“Sabbath?” Dean repeated, an eyebrow raised.  
“Either the day of rest - or the night where witches meet with the Devil,” Castiel said, smiling at Lucifer as the horse raised his head and whinnied with his mouth full of grass.  
Dean pursed his lips, reaching his hand up to take the sword from Castiel. It felt so perfect in his hand still, he didn’t know why he would even bother to pick up a different weapon. He pulled it upright, blade pointing to the sky. “Sabbath. Sword of Dean Winchester, Guardian of Zamreer.”  
“It has a ring to it,” Castiel said, with an air of amusement.  
“Guess it does.” Dean stared at the circular ruby in the hilt, finger tracing over its perfectly shaped edges. “Awesome,” he said, clapping Castiel on the side of the arm, going to ready Lucifer to ride back.  
“Are we leaving?” Castiel asked, watching Dean sheath Sabbath and straighten Lucifer’s saddle.  
“I gotta get back, Cas. I have Captain stuff to do. You know, Guardian of Zamreer. Kind of a big deal.”  
Castiel’s lips became a thin line, eyes drifting to the scuffled grass where the two of them had fought, and the crumpled blanket, rolled aside. He sighed, and went to gather their things up.  
“May I ride in front on the way back?” he asked Dean, handing him the empty picnic basket with the blanket inside. Well, it was almost empty. Dean hadn’t eaten his salad, but Castiel was unsurprised. He hadn’t been too keen to ‘force some down his gullet’, however.  
Dean glanced warily at Lucifer, nose in the grass. “Sure, I guess. You remember the way?”  
“Of course,” Castiel replied, mounting his horse with ease. Lucifer suddenly attempted to leave without Dean, kicking into a gallop - but Castiel yanked his reins and forced him to stop. “Lucifer, if you try that again, I will leave you here.”  
Dean snorted, “He’d probably follow you back.” He handed Castiel the basket as he climbed up, taking it again once he was settled, sitting behind the saddle on Lucifer’s rump. Dean turned to watch as they left Limn’mere behind them, pushing through trees once more. The splashing of the waterfall became the sound of the rush of air through the leaves above them, as they trotted back the way they’d come.  
This was the last time they would take only one horse, since it was clearly a bad idea. Besides, Chevy missed Limn’mere, Dean was sure of it. Nowhere else was there a sweeter grass that grew. And the ride there and back was pleasant, to say the least. The view ahead was obscured by trees, but the sun was spilled in patches over the dry flat of the earth, and when Cas pulled Lucifer around through into thinner forest, the way ahead was open and truly bewitching to the senses.  
The wind was almost honeyed, the last of the season’s blossom drifting around them as they trotted, easy and unhurried. Lucifer’s white pelt shimmered in and out of the sunlight, pink petals landing on his ears; he shook his head and nickered, like a laugh. Dean himself felt like laughing too.  
The view could instill nothing but peace inside him.  
Perhaps, though, the regret that it would end. Dean dared not think about it.  
Dean let his mind wander as they neared the city again; they didn’t leave the forest just yet, but Dean knew they were coming to the edge. Castiel directed Lucifer effortlessly, taking them not the exact same way they had come, but along a similar route; once taking the other side of a giant tree that Dean had never bothered to investigate the other side of - where, he was unnerved to find, there was a massive hive of bees that Castiel paused to look at, fascinated. Dean was eager to move on, but was, frankly, captivated by how enthralled Castiel became by all the little things going on around them. For Dean, they were everyday things. But for Castiel, everything was as new for him as it was for a child.  
Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that. Castiel was certainly not a child, and it would be silly to treat him like one. He was in every way an adult the same age as Dean, minus the gigantic privilege that was freedom to explore, to discover for himself. Dean couldn’t take that away from him, and so he stood by and watched as Castiel shoved him off the horse so he could dismount to look at a clump of mushrooms.  
“Those things are poisonous, you know,” he decided to mention, in case Castiel didn’t know.  
“ _Amanita muscaria_ ,” Castiel told him, back turned, crouching down beside the cluster of red-capped evil-looking things. “Sometimes used as a hallucinogen.”  
Dean looked at him warily. “Is there a reason you know that, or...?”  
Castiel stood up with a tiny grunt of a sigh, turning and stepping over soft woodchips to stand beside Dean. A bit _too_ close, Dean noted. He leaned away, almost imperceptibly.  
“I have read almost every book in the castle library,” Castiel told him. “There were none of the fairytales you mentioned, however. I did ask, but mostly the collection houses the discoveries and history of the city and its people, over the last seven centuries or so. There is no fiction available.” Castiel dropped his eyes with a disappointed press of his lip.  
Castiel reached forward and put his arm around Dean, and for a moment Dean panicked at how close he was getting, then realised he was only reaching for the saddle behind him, nudging Dean out of the way. Castiel climbed up and steadied Lucifer until Dean was safely behind him, still holding the picnic basket.  
They rode on in silence. It was a few minutes later, so very close to the edge of the forest, that Dean noticed the scent that had been lingering in his nose for a while now.  
“You’re wearing the perfume I bought you,” Dean realised. “Pamela... told me you were.”  
Castiel ducked his head, and Lucifer slowed a fraction as the angel pulled on the reins as his hands tensed involuntarily. Castiel was embarrassed, Dean discerned. Dean couldn’t help but feel the same way, for a long, drawn-out quiet moment.  
Slowly, steadied to a walking pace, they emerged from the trees and onto the open grass that spread out from Zamreer’s borders. They were only a few minutes away now.  
Dean swallowed, realising he had to breathe or he’d fall off the horse from dizziness. He inhaled, and the scent was unmistakable now - that ravishing, unplaceable sense that clouded his nostrils before he had a chance to clear his head.  
It was irrepressible: he had to breathe in again, with forced gentleness, else he’d fall off the horse from light-headedness. There was no winning, really. He sniffed, licking his lips. He could taste it on his tongue now, easy to separate from the blossom and the green leaves, the new-life dust that rolled on the wind.  
Dean closed his eyes and leaned forward, and before he knew it, he was hunched over the basket on his lap with the tip of his nose pressed to the back of Castiel’s neck, dark hair tickling him. The perfume filled him up like nothing he’d felt before, like he was inhaling something solid and golden-red, like fire, or whiskey - something that danced like the flame, spun like a spinning-top inside his head. The aura covered Castiel’s skin like he’d rubbed it all over him, and it was intoxicating. Dean considered that it might be made from Castiel’s damn mushrooms, because boy, was he hallucinating. His mind was awash with colour and pleasure, and he couldn’t get enough.  
“Dean?” came a quiet, rough voice.  
“Mm?”  
“I think you’re falling asleep,” Castiel murmured over his shoulder. Dean jerked up to sitting, grasping the basket with slightly sweaty hands. His face had been pressed to a warm shoulder of muscle, totally relaxed; he hadn’t been that at ease in months. Dean swallowed with a strange discomfort squirming in his gut.  
“Sorry man,” he whispered.  
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” There was a long lull, neither man speaking. “Out of curiosity,” Castiel began, never turning, “what were you thinking?”  
“What, when I was taking a nap on your back? It’s pretty obvious I wasn’t thinking at all,” Dean scoffed. Castiel was silent in reply, but Dean knew he was just settling his curiosity so as not to press Dean with questions. Dean gritted his teeth and decided he might as well share one more thing, since they were totally having a moment. “That perfume is like Hell to my nose, though. Kind of feels like it’s eating at my soul. In a good way,” he added, sure not to offend.  
Castiel turned his head a slight toward Dean, a frown pulling his eyebrows closer. “I didn’t put the perfume on my neck, Dean. Only my wrists, like you showed me.”  
Dean felt a chill of dread fall down his spine, painfully mingled with the possibility of further embarrassment. “So... your neck...?”  
Castiel replied softly, a smile on his words. “Just my skin.”  
Dean knew he wasn’t blushing, since the embarrassment only sought to twist in his gut, cold seeping through the bones in his thighs, his back clenched tight.  
“I’m gonna walk,” Dean said, jumping off Lucifer while he continued his stride. Dean kept pace with his back legs, eyes to the ground.  
“Dean.”  
“Shut up, I can’t ride with you.”  
“Please don’t feel shame over this, it’s nothing.”  
“It’s not nothing, Cas,” Dean snapped, eyes blazing up to meet with Castiel’s, looking down from horseback. “I just - I goddamn _sniffed_ you, Cas. That’s not nothing. It’s - it’s friggin’ _wrong_ , is what it is.”  
“I don’t think it’s wrong.”  
“To you, maybe. You’re cut off from the rest of us, civilisation and crap. When there’s people around, you can’t _do_ that. Maybe - maybe a guy and a girl, but, not two guys.”  
“You did nothing wrong, Dean. And there is nobody around. I promise not to tell anyone, in case you needed to hear it out loud,” Castiel said, slowing the horse down as they neared the drawbridge. It was mid-afternoon now, and people were still going in and out as before.  
“It’s not that, Cas.”  
“What is it, then? It’s nothing to me, you are just making this difficult for yourself.”  
“Guys don’t buy guys perfume. Guys don’t _wear_ perfume. Guys don’t go on picnics. Guys don’t ride two-by-two on horseback. Guys don’t...” Dean bit the inside of his cheek, hard. “Guys don’t hold hands. All right? It’s wrong.”  
“I realise that neither of us are a woman, Dean,” Castiel said sternly, stopping Lucifer in his tracks, at the edge of the path into the city, just out of earshot of the rumbling traffic. “I won’t tell anybody about what we do together - I have few people to tell.”  
“That not the point,” Dean spat, hands clutched in fists at his sides. “We shouldn’t be doing any of this in the first place.”  
“This is not a normal friendship, Dean, unless that escaped your notice.” Castiel dismounted, coming to glare at Dean from a foot in front of him. Dean’s eyes widened at his proximity, but he did not back away. “I am the ‘princess’, locked in the ‘tower’, and you are simply looking for a reason to escape your new responsibilities. I have nothing better to do with my time, than take advantage of that. I will follow you anywhere you wish to take me - and your reasons, to me, are irrelevant.”  
Dean swallowed. “That’s all you want from me? A chance to escape?”  
Castiel seemed surprised by this. “What else is there?”  
Dean stared at him, face forced blank. “Nothing. There’s nothing else,” he said, as much to himself as Castiel.  
“Like I said,” Castiel said, pulling back and mounting Lucifer once more. “It is nothing.” He stared straight ahead, until Dean was behind him, then they stalked across the drawbridge and through the paths of the city until they reached the stable.  
Dean handed Castiel his ring back without a word.  
~  
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Dean said, the words forced. He sat down on the bench in the wooden booth.  
“What, again?” came the cool voice of Rufus from the other side of the partition on Dean’s right.  
“Captain? Where’s Bobby?”  
“It’s Father Turner to you now, Winchester. And boy, don’t you ever notice that Singer’s only around at night? Man, you have some serious observational issues.”  
Dean kept his eyes on the tiny circles of light through the criss-cross mesh of thick wood in front of him. There was gold paint on it, and Dean vaguely thought what a waste of gold that was. Little things, he always saw the little things. Never the big picture. Yeah, he knew what Rufus meant.  
“I lied to a friend,” Dean said, head down, threading his fingers together and placing his elbows on his knees. “Told him I had a family.”  
Rufus sighed through his nose, sympathy seeming to waft through the grill that separated them. “Just trying to make yourself feel better, huh? I know how that is.”  
“I...” Dean croaked. “I don’t know why I did it. It was stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “As soon as it was out, I just wanted to―” he swept a hand toward his mouth, “push it back in, stop it from ever coming out. I’m not a liar,” he said, softly.  
“Like hell you ain’t. I remember one time you told a girl you had a flyin’ pony.”  
Dean almost laughed, instead barking out a short cough. “Rufus, that was eighteen years ago, I was eight. And she didn’t believe me anyway.”  
“That’s no excuse, the good ones always start young.”  
Dean tried to keep a smile in, he wasn’t in the mood. “Anyway. This friend.” Dean drew in a breath and let it out all at once. “I told him I had a brother. Named Bobby-John.”  
Rufus chuckled for a moment, rumbling deep. “You know that wasn’t his name, don’t you?”  
Dean closed his eyes, hearing his own heartbeat rushing in his ears in the closed box. “Yeah, I know.”  
“Bobby... he told me what happened to them. Reaper Massacre, he said.”  
Dean shut his eyes so tight he could feel his eyeballs pressed behind his lids, dark orange of the church confession booth turning splotchy green and blue under the pressure.  
~x~  
Sam took in a slow gasp, hands tangling in Chevrolet’s reins as he tried to slow her to a halt. “Dean?” he uttered, voice as soft as the chilly breeze of the early afternoon.  
“Hm?” Dean asked, eyes half-closed in thought. He still kept his cloak around him, even if the mist had long cleared.  
“Dean, my parents died in the same massacre,” Sam said, words haunted.  
Dean’s face cleared of lines, instead clouding with an intense sympathy, grief, seeping into the hollows of his eyes and creating invisible shadows.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean said, swallowing hard.  
Sam shook his head. “I never knew my parents, I don’t remember them.”  
“I was nine.” Dean stroked the hawk that still perched on his arm, comforted by its feathers, even through his gloves. “I was already at the Guard training, all I got was a quiet word from Uncle Bobby... he came to stay at the castle then, to look after me.”  
“Uncle?”  
“Not my real Uncle, but close enough. Family don’t end with blood, he kept saying. Not alone. Never alone. But... still lonely.”  
“I lived with my Aunt Ellen. Not my real Aunt.”  
Dean gave Sam a weak smile, and Sam returned it, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder from up on horseback. He moved it off almost immediately, but Dean seemed calmed by the touch. “I did have a brother, he was lost when they torched the place,” he said bitterly. “Six months old, never even got a chance.”  
“I was six months when they found me, hidden in a cupboard in a burned-out building,” Sam said, voice fierce all of a sudden. “You - you don’t think...?”  
Dean looked at Sam, and Sam looked at Dean. They looked nothing alike, Sam was too tall, Dean too slender; Sam with his hazel eyes and Dean with his green - the only thing they had in common was their proximity and their parents’ deaths. There was nothing there, no.  
Dean shook his head. “Can’t be.” He shook again, turning back to the path he was making through the trees.  
Sam nudged the sleek black horse back to Dean’s side, walking beside him. “I pretend that I have a brother, sometimes. I talk to him when I’m alone. Like some people talk to God.”  
Dean glanced at Sam, up on his horse. “You’re kinda weird, you know that?”  
“You said that to Cas, and look where that got you.”  
“I haven’t finished the story yet. He- _she_ and I get along fine, I’ll have you know.”  
“Whoa, spoilers!” Sam huffed, on the verge of laughter. He looked down at Dean as he kept walking, black cloak drifting and catching over the dewy plants behind him as he passed. “You and Cas really had something special, though, huh?”  
Dean sighed, head tilting down. “Yeah, she just didn’t know it yet. I didn’t, either. I was really blind, sometimes.”  
“Keep the faith, Dean,” Sam said in a lighthearted tone - he meant it as a mockery of people who said such things, but he couldn’t help but let some truth bleed into it. He meant it. Faith was important sometimes.  
Dean laughed under his breath. “You do sound like him, sometimes.”  
“Who?”  
“Cas,” Dean said, turning away and reaching into a pocket.  
“Him?”  
“What?” Dean murmured distractedly.  
“You said ‘him’.”  
“No I didn’t,” Dean said, alarmed. “Or maybe I did, but by mistake.”  
“Yeah, whatever. What’s that?” Sam asked, leaning forward in the saddle to see what Dean was holding in his cupped palm. It was shiny, circular, a coin perhaps.  
“I - I was making this for Cas.” He held out his hand with his palm up, so Sam could see clearly; a band of plain gold made a loop: a ring.  
Sam took it with the tips of his fingers, careful not to drop it. Dean let his arm fall back to his side.  
“It’s nice,” Sam said, peering at it, held right up to his face with all of his fingers touching it, turning it. “It’s very well-made.”  
“Makin’ dainty little things ain’t really my strong point, so...”  
“No, it’s good, it’s really good,” Sam said, impressed. It was almost flawless, a clean circle with no nicks or bruises, no imperfections in the gold. Simple.  
“It’s not finished, I don’t quite know what it needs. Don’t even know if it’ll fit her,” Dean continued, hand reaching up again to tangle in the loose reins of his horse, guiding her needlessly. “It’s not like I wanna marry her, or anything,” he said, almost defensively. “I just thought it would be nice, her having had a crappy ring all the time she was on Earth, keeping her prisoner.”  
“It wasn’t really keeping her, though, was it? By magic or something.”  
“Nah, it was just a ring. It’s the principle, right?” Dean took the ring back from Sam, pocketing it. “It was all symbolism, of her being trapped. She takes it off when she’s with me, and...”  
“And she’s all yours.”  
Dean huffed, crossing sides with Sam so he avoided a tree. “So anyway. Shall I keep going with the story?”  
“You’re gonna get to the reason you kidnapped me at some point, right?”  
“I didn’t kidnap you, bitch.”  
“Did too. I was fine on my own,” Sam retorted, tone still good-natured. “Jerk.”  
Dean rolled his eyes. “So I was all ‘oh, I lied to my friend’, and then... Rufus didn’t bother giving me ‘Hail Mary’s, just a promise that I’d come clean... he got it, you know?”  
“Not really.”  
Dean didn’t spare him a glance. “I went back to my rooms. Got changed back into Guard stuff, went back down, did some training―” he spoke in monotone, listing off the things he did for the rest of the day. Evidently it was of lesser interest than the rest of Dean’s life, because as he’d been telling it, his life had slowly begun to revolve around the angel Castiel.  
She must have been a truly beautiful woman, Sam thought as Dean spoke. The way Dean described her, her startling blue eyes, her long black hair, slender frame... for the most of it, she seemed a strange lady, but the way Dean’s eyes shone with joy and loss as he spoke... it spilled volumes, far more than Dean could say in words.  
If Dean loved this girl, he need not even say it. Sam could see it in his eyes.  
“So then, the next day,” Dean said, taking a new breath for a new day. “We went out to the forest again.”  
~x~  
Dean pulled at his collar with a finger, trying to loosen it. New leather was going to take a while to break in. This armour had the Captain of the Guard crest emblazoned on the left shoulder, opposite his heart. The whole thing was so stiff, it was binding his chest so he could barely breathe. It felt like a cage around him.  
He was going to take the first opportunity to take it off and breathe, he decided. Maybe do some stretching, loosen his arms up again. The tiny cap-sleeves of black leather were keeping his shoulders all tense, and he hadn’t been able to relax for hours.  
He’d been trying to track Raphael down all morning, because he still hadn’t turned up to a single practice session. Even Uriel hadn’t managed to avoid Dean’s little tag-teams of local children, sent on missions to capture and bring the elusive Guardsmen to him. It was fun for them, Dean supposed. The children, that is. Uriel had a hard time trying not to smack one or more of them in the face, but dare not, because they, just like him, were under the orders of the Captain - plus, their parents were watching him.  
So Uriel was resigned to sulking at the back of a fencing session, half-heartedly trying to take Balthazar’s head off. Virgil, like Raphael, remained absent.  
Dean stomped across the dusty courtyard in the sun, back burning under the leather. Talking to Missouri calmed him down. So, to Missouri was where he was going.  
Slinking in through the always-open doorway, Dean slipped around the bustle of people working, young and old, skinny and fat, all looking somewhat overworked, but not miserable. In fact, they all looked quite happy. Despite the steam and the constant barrage of strange smells, the kitchen always seemed like a cheerful place to work.  
Missouri undoubtedly had something to do with the cheeriness, Dean thought. He sat down on a stool at the side of the room and waited for her to find him. It took all of ten seconds.  
“I told you, honey,” Missouri warbled, and Dean realised she was talking not to him, but a white-clothed person who was walking behind her. Castiel. “He’d be here in a moment,” she finished, coming to stand expectantly at Dean’s side with a tiny sigh.  
Dean looked between her and Castiel, wondering what this was about. “Did I do something, or...?”  
“I’ll tell you what you did, sweetheart, shall I?”  
Dean was expecting something about Castiel and their argument the day before, but instead he got, “You know Bessy, down at the sugar mill by the big tree, the ol’ one with the swing?”  
“Uh...” Dean said.  
“Well,” Missouri continued, hands clasping in front of her. “I hear you gave some kid fool permission to let _processed_ sugar in. From the outside,” she said, enunciating the last three words with a growl in her voice, leaning down and glaring at Dean’s face.  
“Uh.”  
“Poor Bessy’s gonna be out of a job in,” she glanced up at the ceiling, “ooh, let’s see - three days flat.” She looked down at Dean and folded her arms.  
“I was meaning to ask about that, actually,” Dean croaked. “Your pies. You put sug―”  
“I do no such thing, I know it ain’t legal! Did it happen to escape your notice, _Captain_ , that it ain’t cherry season? Where’d you think I get cherries? Preserved cherries, that’s what.” The dark-skinned woman looked down her nose at Dean, and Dean shrunk under her gaze. “I don’t use a single smidgen of imported sugar, and there are plenty of damn ways to sweeten everything up. Without. Sugar.”  
“W-wh-what’s your point?” Dean asked, feeling like a tortoise pulling his head inside his shell, what with his stiff armour pressed on his neck.  
“My point, sweetheart,” Missouri said, voice now gentle as a feather, then turning to cold iron as she ground out: “is that you are an ass. Today, on your way out to Limn’mere, you will find that rake of a man, Garth, and you will tell him to put sugar back on the contraband list. There are reasons, Dean Winchester, for everything.”  
“I’m not going to Limn’mere,” Dean said, looking Missouri up and down uncomfortably. So much for coming here for some good advice, he was getting fried like one of Missouri’s special potato chips.  
“Oh, aren’t you?” Missouri said, hands on her hips. “Castiel, honey, why don’t you tell Dean what you told me?”  
“I didn’t tell you anything,” Castiel said, voice as deep and gritty as ever. Dean had only vaguely registered his presence once Missouri had started talking.  
“Tell Dean what you were about to tell me, then.”  
“I would like to see the place again,” Castiel answered.  
Missouri gazed over at him softly, a hand slipping from her hip to touch his forearm. “That wasn’t all of it, now, was it?”  
“I... would like you to take me,” Castiel said to Dean. “Because I would rather not go on my own.”  
If Missouri gave Castiel a slightly regretful look when he added his reasoning, Castiel did not notice. Dean looked up at Castiel from his perch on the stool.  
“I packed you another basket,” Missouri said happily, tottering off to fetch it.  
Dean looked away from Castiel when the woman left, and Castiel did not speak.  
“Andy!” came a sharp bark from across the kitchen. Dean peered around the standing Castiel to see Pamela whacking a young man upside the head. ”How many times have I said, carrots _then_ gravy. And - jeez, Andy, you forgot to heat the plate up again.” Pamela glared at the kid with the empty whites of her eyes, and he shrugged expressively, letting her fix his mistakes.  
“Go wash the dishes,” she said after him, and he moved to do so. Pamela turned to stare down Dean, and then glanced to Castiel, who had also pivoted on his heels to watch. “Have a nice trip, boys, won’t you?” she called across a rush of steam, grinning at them. Dean huffed and straightened up on his seat.  
“Why does everyone know what’s going on around here? Whole room full of psychics and mind-readers - you included,” Dean said scathingly, gesturing up and down at Castiel’s torso. “Why’ve I gotta be the only normal one, huh?”  
“You are far from normal, Dean,” Castiel said, perhaps reluctantly, not keen to talk but ending up doing so anyway. “You are special. In any number of ways.”  
“Oh, please,” Dean reviled. “Don’t give me that ‘you’re beautiful on the inside’ crap.”  
Castiel frowned at him, his hands by his sides. “You _are_ beautiful, Dean. The part on the outside is just a lot more obvious.”  
Dean’s face twitched, trying to believe Castiel had insulted him, but found it hard to register as a bad thing. “Thanks,” he hissed, mocking.  
“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel said, in a solemn, honest tone.  
Dean felt a little Castiel-shaped hammer knocking at the emotional wall he’d built. He huffed and looked away, watching Missouri return with the basket. Dean was fully aware that she hadn’t needed all that time to fetch it, and had been giving them a moment to talk.  
“Now then,” she said, setting the basket in Dean’s lap, where he was forced to take hold of it. “You two have a good time, and I want that basket back when you’re done with it.”  
Dean sulked. Castiel pulled him to his feet by his elbow, and he sulked some more. Then he dragged himself to the stables at Castiel’s side, making a two-minute detour (basket shoved unceremoniously into Castiel’s arms first) to inform Balthazar that he would be back for training later than usual. Then he proceeded to sulk all the way to the stables, leaving a trail of sulky air in his wake, which Castiel avoided by keeping step with him the whole way.  
It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to go to Limn’mere - well, that was exactly it. He _did_ want to go. He wanted to go with Castiel, and he wanted to take the damn basket and the blanket stuffed inside, and he wanted to ride out on their horses, and have a merry old time.  
He didn’t like that he wanted that.  
Things were simpler when all he had to worry about was how much he’d had to drink last night, and how hungover he would be when he showed up for practice - keeping his horse pretty, keeping Gabriel and Anna on his good side, keeping Raphael out of his sight. Now he had to keep everyone else in line, and he had an angel who just needed a buddy more than anything.  
Castiel was to Dean what Lucifer was to Castiel: some poor sod that needed a little guidance and friendship.  
But that wasn’t all it was. Dean did enjoy Castiel’s company, whether Castiel returned the sentiment or not.  
Which was Missouri and Castiel’s point. Responsibility was not something Dean really wanted. He liked being careless and carefree, and he enjoyed picnics in the woods far more than anything else he’d ever worked towards in his life. He just wanted to share Limn’mere with someone. He was starting to realise that he’d never actively _wanted_ anything in his life before. He’d been working toward being Captain for practically his whole existence, and now he had it, he wanted something else. Reckless.  
And so he marched on regardless, heading for Chevrolet’s stall first, resting a hand on her nose as he called to her softly. She had been brave, and he checked her knees: yes, they were healed. There were scars, but scars couldn’t always be healed by angel mojo, only by time.  
Dean felt a seething anger toward Raphael for doing this to his baby in the first place. “I’m going to kill him.” he muttered, to anyone who happened to be in earshot. Chevy snuffled at his hand.  
Castiel disappeared to set Lucifer up for the ride - yesterday’s journey took much longer than it usually did, but today should be quicker, maybe twenty minutes at a fast trot. While Castiel was gone, Dean brushed his horse down and spoke softly to her, so very lovingly.  
“Dean,” Castiel said from behind, and Dean straightened up to see the angel dressed in white, sitting atop his massive white stallion. He looked quite impressive, even in the dark brown shadows of the stables. “Are you ready to leave?”  
Dean nodded, head still fixated on the many ways he might murder Raphael. He’d start with his knees, he settled. Mounting with the basket, Dean pulled Chevy out of her stall to stand parallel by Castiel’s horse, his own dark armour and black horse only a few inches lower, Chevy being smaller and stockier.  
With a nod, Dean led the way out of the stable, hearing Lucifer’s hooves at Chevy’s rear. They trotted down to the drawbridge, and with a sigh, Dean pulled up at the stone pillar that Garth stood at. Castiel parked Lucifer up by the wall, watching the people pass by.  
“Captain, nice to see you back so soon,” Garth smiled, toasting him with an invisible glass.  
“Yeah. I’m here to take sugar back off the menu,” he said, tugging at his leather armour again. It was starting to itch in the heat of the sun.  
“Well that didn’t last long, did it?” Grant said, with an amused snort. Dean pursed his lip and watched Garth unwrinkle the paper from his pocket. “That should be fine. We have a bunch of new stock coming in though, replacements for raw sugar cane.”  
“Just don’t let the processed stuff through, all right?” Dean ordered, turning away to mount his horse again. He was about to press onward, when he was held back by a bare foot on his leg, Castiel reaching over from next to him.  
“Dean, would you take my ring again?” he asked, toying with it on his finger nervously.  
Dean kept his eyes on the silver-white band as he nodded. Castiel pulled it off and handed it over without hesitation. His fingers grazed Dean’s as he took it, and Dean couldn’t help but think it was intentional, a silent thanks. Dean took off his own ring also, knowing Castiel was watching him.  
“I’ll race you to the forest,” Dean said with a quick grin, and a second later a determined Lucifer pushed in front of him, the horse taking the challenge personally. Dean could feel Chevy’s hooves pound the drawbridge hard as she forced herself to catch up - Dean realised it was less of a race between himself and Castiel, than it was for their horses.  
Lucifer was sleek but strong, with spindly legs that cut the air, rather than propelled through it by sheer force, like Chevy’s. She was built like a beautiful machine of muscle, blasting her way across the grass and kicking up dirt behind her. Dean bounced in the saddle, eye on the dark-haired angel rushing a good way ahead.  
“Don’t let them get there, baby,” he said to his horse, knowing it was up to her whether she pushed herself to do it or not. But then again, she was hard-pressed to refuse him. She bit into a gallop that far outstripped the fallen angel and his ex-angel horse, and Dean watched their challengers’ stony faces as they overtook and pounded into the forest’s edge at full speed. But Chevy was having too much fun to stop now - she leapt over a fallen log and kept running. Lucifer was on their tail, the heavy clop of hooves on peat drumming up behind them.  
They ran at full pelt together through the trees, navigating trunks and branches with heavy turns that regularly had Dean holding on for dear life. He let out a whoop of delight as she crossed over a stream in one bound, water splashing in droplets up over his back.  
The basket of food was an irregular shape, but even with the lump of it in Dean’s lap, they blazed through the streaks of sunlight, across soft waves of earth, slashing through low branches with a swift whip back in Castiel’s face. Dean grinned and kept on.  
After a few exhilarating minutes, Chevy began to slow, muscles burning with heat between Dean’s legs, sweat glistening in a layer on her coat. He touched her head; it was okay if she wanted to slow down. She gradually fell to a trot, and Dean looked behind to see Lucifer had fallen well behind, Castiel’s white clothes stepping in and out of sunbeams only every few seconds as they walked at a restful pace.  
Dean slowed Chevy enough that Lucifer and Castiel could catch up, and soon the horses panted and snorted side-by-side, their heavily clopping hooves slow with the effort of exertion.  
“Whew,” Dean said, also short of breath. His armour was as tight as anything now, feeling hot as a furnace. He would undo it now, but it wasn’t easy, the buckles were stiff. He’d wait until they were at the pool.  
“That was fun,” Castiel said, a smile gracing his face as he said ‘fun’. It didn’t seem like something he’d experienced before, and Dean smiled back.  
“Yeah, it was,” he replied.  
That was all they said on the way there, the only sounds coming from their huffing horses and the birds twittering in the swish of the trees. Castiel led the way once they got into the deeper forest, Dean using all of his brainpower to memorise the way this place looked now, making sure he would be able to find it on his own. Lucifer pulled through thick shrubs, and together all of them emerged in the green, grassy wonderland that was Limn’mere.  
The trees that overhung the whole place waved gently at their tops, the breeze stronger there. The sun beat down through the leaves as hot as ever - the warmest day this year so far, Dean supposed.  
He dismounted, removing Chevy’s saddle and bridle, letting her coat breathe in the open air. Castiel followed suit with Lucifer, then came to stand beside Dean as he stood and looked at the view.  
The enclosure wasn’t huge - a grassy verge where the men were with their horses (who were now chewing grass happily), a sandy bank ahead of them that sank into the lapping edges of clear water. The pool itself was about as big as Dean’s rooms in the castle - nothing too expansive, but large nonetheless. The giant rock was on Dean and Castiel’s left, about the height of Dean and perhaps half again. The point of it hung over the pool, a few vines trailing from its lip and dangling in the still of the surface. The flat sun-dappled mirror was disturbed only by the splashing waterfall that flowed into it from the other side of the pool: a tiny, ferocious little thing that spat fresh springwater constantly. Rocks surrounded the rest of the surface, all along the furthest side, all the way up to the dock that Dean had built. From there, the pool’s edge came round and receded back to sand, the shallowest water glimmering on the bank from where Dean and Castiel observed.  
“I never really thanked you, Dean,” Castiel said, voice low, “for bringing me here, and sharing this with me.”  
“It’s nothing,” Dean said automatically - and with those words, they were both thrown back to their argument the day before. Dean looked at his boots and scowled at his carelessness. Why couldn’t it have been forgotten, why did he have to ruin this?  
“Perhaps, unless you disagree... we might put aside yesterday’s dispute about our motivations in leaving the castle... and just enjoy our time here together,” Castiel suggested.  
Dean was relieved at the suggestion. “Let’s,” he agreed, untying his scabbard from his waist. It was a bad idea to disarm himself, he knew that, but he couldn’t get to the buckles on his armour while his hilt was in the way. Plus, the weight was uneven on his hip.  
He threw Sabbath down on the blanket Castiel had just rolled out, and began to unbuckle the fiddly metal squares.  
“May I...?” Castiel offered, and Dean let him. Less than a minute later, and he was free of the leather monstrosity, hurling it to the ground in frustration. Then he took in a deep, calming breath, and let it out, and let his worries go with it.  
Castiel was watching Lucifer take a drink from the pool, hands sliding up his own forearms gently. “I want to go swimming.”  
“What?” Dean asked, pausing as his straightened his sweaty shirt. He was still overheating, and it was annoying him.  
“I have never swum before,” Castiel said, looking at Dean with clear blue eyes. “I’m sure I could pick it up quickly.”  
“You want me to teach you?”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes in amusement. “I hardly think Lucifer is qualified to teach me.”  
Dean felt his face curl strangely, and recognised it as a smile - it felt foreign, after having a grimace painted on his face all morning. “Psh, fine,” he muttered, shaking the neck of his black shirt so a rush of air waved against his skin.  
Castiel wandered to the water’s edge, his bare foot testing the sand, sinking his toes deep into it and sighing in newfound pleasure. Another step, and he placed his second foot in the shallow water, breaking the surface and letting it drop to the sand below. He hummed a low note, happy. He took two more steps, hurried and eager, water sloshing at his white trousers, soaking into the linen.  
“Hey, whoa, whoa. You gotta take your kit off, you’ll be freezing after if you go around with wet clothes.”  
“We have to be naked?” Castiel asked him, standing with the water up to his knees, looking a little pathetic.  
For some reason it only then clicked that Dean also had to be in the water in order to teach Castiel how to avoid drowning. Dean hesitated, wondering if he could rescind his offer to provide swimming lessons. But - “No, no, just down to our underthings, it’s cool.”  
“Underthings?”  
“Yeah, you know, breeches.” Dean gestured to his lower half. “You are wearing some, right?” For all he knew, Castiel was as adamant that he needed nothing under his trousers, as he needed nothing on his feet.  
“Oh, yes,” Castiel said, touching his hip lightly.  
Dean cocked his head, indicating that Castiel should come back on dry land. Dean pulled his shirt off with a sigh of relief, letting it crumple on the grass. His skin felt sticky and clammy, far too hot to wear dark linen and leather. If only he could be wearing a light top like Castiel - which Castiel was no longer wearing: he’d cast it aside, next to Dean’s.  
Castiel was skinny, Dean observed, eyes only glimpsing the other man before he went to undo his own trousers. Broad-shouldered, muscular, pale - and skinny. Well, slim, was maybe the word for it. He seemed quite agile.  
“Cas, if you’re stuck inside all day, reading books...” Dean began, tugging his boots off when he noticed his trousers were snagging around them, “where’d you get the time to keep that tummy so trim, hm?”  
Castiel glanced down at his stomach, as if looking at the flat planes of it for the first time. “It came like this,” he said, eyebrows knitting together. “My vessel, a dead man. It hasn’t changed at all since I took over his body.”  
“Dead?” Dean asked, startled. “I thought he was _dying_ , not _dead_.” He pulled his trousers into a heap and stood up, hand on the corner of his hip, pointed bone under the crook of his fingers.  
“My brothers received the vessels of dying people, collected by the Priestess on her orders, given freely... mine, was a man who died of heart failure. Jimmy,” he said, touching his heart gently. He was very lightly tanned, Dean noticed - not as pale as he looked in the white clothes.  
Castiel continued: “I only inherited his body a few hours after he passed on. I don’t know if that was the reason Meg keeps me away from the other angels, but I have suspected. I doubt I will ever know.”  
“You can’t just ask?”  
Castiel looked at Dean, both standing with only their knee-length linen breeches covering them. Dean’s were worn thin, and for a fleeting moment he worried they might be see-through. But he didn’t linger on the thought.  
“I can’t ask questions like that, Dean.”  
“You’re really so scared of her?”  
“I’m not―” Castiel began, fierce, but then he calmed. “I don’t fear her. Only her power.”  
“She has power? Like angel mojo?”  
Castiel inclined his head, perhaps in shame. “I’m not meant to talk about it to anyone.”  
“She’s an angel?”  
Castiel’s eyes shifted, grazing over Dean standing half-naked. “She is human, but she is very powerful. Not like us, not like the angels. But she can control creatures that―” Castiel stopped abruptly. “I cannot tell you this, it’s treason. She would kill us both.”  
Dean let out a soft breath. “All right, you don’t have to.” He took a step forward, placing his hand at Castiel’s elbow and nudging him toward the pool. “Swim now?”  
“Yes, please,” Castiel replied, shoulders slumping in relief.  
Together they waded into the shallows, Dean watching Castiel’s smile out of the corner of his eye. Cool water seeped into the cloth around Dean’s hips, turning heavy, swaddling him gently as his steps created his own current around him.  
“It feels nice,” Castiel said, once the water was up to his midriff, arms raised at his shoulders, still out of the water. Stones covered in soft plant life were tickling and slipping under Dean’s feet, and he figured Castiel was feeling the same thing. He began to see what Castiel saw in this, the newness. It had been so long since Dean felt those stones under his feet, it felt like a fresh encounter.  
Every sensation sent a tingle of enjoyment through Dean, the way the water lapped at his stubble as he pushed up from the pool bed and started to tread water; the ripple of liquid between his spread fingers; the way he could feel the wrinkles in his own foot as he twisted it, pushing through the water.  
“Dea―” came an aborted cough, and Dean turned to see Castiel’s face vanish below the surface. He swam back and wrenched Castiel to the surface by his bicep, and he came up with a bewildered expression on his face, hair sodden and dripping down his face in little rivers.  
“You have to kick, Cas,” Dean instructed, still treading water. “Like me, see?”  
Castiel looked down between their bodies as Dean held him up, and through the ripples of the surface, he saw Dean turning his legs on the spot, like a frog.  
Castiel imitated him, and then Dean let go of his arm to make waves under the water with closed hands, balancing himself. Castiel copied that too, and straight away ceased his uncertain wobbling and bobbing. He breathed a sigh, and for a moment they just watched each other hovering in the pool, sun shimmering over their heads. Castiel reached up to brush the wet hair off his forehead, only losing his balance for a second before learning to right himself.  
Dean kicked and began a slow swim towards the other side of the pool, over by the waterfall. Castiel hesitated, trying to work out what to do with his legs - after a few seconds of calculating how to synchronise kicking and the round movements with his arms, he followed.  
Dean touched his hands to a rock twice the size of his head; grey, sharp facets on it smoothed over by age; hollow at the bottom just over the surface, where the water shivered at it constantly. Castiel met him there, and held on to the rock too.  
“Dude, how do you even learn so fast?” Dean huffed a tiny breath, eyes moving over the muscles rolling under the skin of Castiel’s neck as he bobbed in the water.  
“I suppose it’s a blessing,” Castiel replied. He turned his head to the rock that they hung onto, eyes widening at what he saw there. “Look, a frog!” he whispered, throat pulling up in excitement.  
Dean looked at what Castiel was looking at, and saw nothing, only ferns draping a few inches from his face, leaves covering everything in his sight. Castiel reached a hand out of the pool, cupping it beside the rock, palm up. He twitched a finger, like he was beckoning. A rustle - and then out came a small green frog, crawling on funny elongated legs.  
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Dean muttered, repulsed.  
Castiel glared at him, shoulders drawn back. “It is a beautiful creature, Dean, like every one of God’s creations.”  
“It’s gross and slimy, why are you―” Dean broke off as the frog crawled into Castiel’s palm and heaved its throat as it arranged its legs to sit there. “Ew, that’s... _ew_.”  
Castiel beamed with delight as the frog squeaked quietly. “Hello,” Castiel said, nose a few inches from its tiny green face. It fit nicely in his palm. “Dean doesn’t like you.”  
“Damn right I don’t, look at that. Bleugh,” Dean said, hands clasped tightly on the rock, sunlight drying his shoulders as they were held out of the water. He watched for a few more moments, as Castiel held the frog and studied it. “Did you use mojo to get it to come to you?”  
“Only a small amount. It was curious anyway, it didn’t take much persuasion.”  
“You know, in a fairytale, if you kissed that thing, it’d turn into a prince.”  
Castiel glanced up at him furtively. Dean bit his tongue.  
“Why?”  
“Hell if I know, that stuff never makes sense. They’re kind of like... romance stories. Princess kisses the frog, it becomes a prince, they get married and live happily ever after, the end.”  
Castiel frowned, face still right up next to his frog. “Why would I marry a prince?”  
“Well, not _you_ , but a princess.“  
“You said I was a princess before,” Castiel said, getting increasingly confused. The frog inflated its fat little belly again.  
“No, you’re not, I meant - in the stories, there’s girls trapped in the tower, they’re not allowed out. I just... saw that comparison.”  
“You don’t think I’m a princess?” Castiel said, stating the question in monotone.  
“Uh - no, you’re a guy.”  
“So I’m a prince? I’m a frog prince?”  
Dean put fingertips to his forehead and rubbed gently. “No, that’s not...”  
“Since I’m not a prince now, if I were kissed, would I turn into a prince?”  
“Cas. God, stop. Please,” Dean demanded, a hand out in front of him. “They’re stories, all right? They’re not real.” He lowered his hand and watched Castiel return his attention to his frog, peering down at it with his shoulders hunched out of the water, waterline washing at his collarbone. Dean flicked his eyes over the two of them, the man and his frog.  
Castiel sighed, speaking to the slimy lump in his hand. “I still don’t know why I would need a prince, when I have you.” Dean thought he was still talking to the frog, but then realised Castiel was looking right at _him_ with those wide blue eyes.  
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathed, suddenly annoyed. “Would you quit giving me mixed signals? First you’re all ‘I want to be your friend’, then you’re all whispery in my ear with the ‘I like you too Dean!’ and then you’re all ‘what else is there?’ - and now you’re right back to saying you like me. Are you here for me, or for the escape, Cas? I can’t tell any more.”  
“Dean,” Castiel said, distressed. He put the frog back on the rock and it hobbled back into the undergrowth. “Dean, I like you. I like you very much,” Castiel said, his voice strained and low. His eyeline skimmed the water at Dean’s chest, shaking his head gently. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. I thought―”  
“What, Cas?”  
“I _thought_ , that when you told me that men don’t do any of the things we did together... I thought you didn’t wish to continue. All of those things, they were the things I had enjoyed the most.”  
Dean looked blankly at him and let him keep talking.  
“I thought that, if you wanted an out, if you didn’t want to...” Castiel looked away toward the sandy bank, eyelids lowered. “If you didn’t want to see me again, it would be easier for you, if you thought I didn’t like you.”  
“The hell kind of flawed logic is that?” Dean asked, one half of his face quirked high.  
Castiel pulled his lips into a line, gaze resting back on Dean’s face but not quite meeting his eyes. “Missouri insinuated that I should apologise.”  
Dean snorted. That emotional wall inside him seemed to have crumbled. The tight feeling in his chest had lifted before he’d realised it had happened. “You know another thing men don’t do?”  
“What?”  
“Talk about their feelings.”  
Castiel met his eyes briefly before looking down again. He seemed very fixated on Dean’s chest, eyes dancing over his heart. “Are we friends again?” he asked, faintly.  
Dean smirked, and resisted patting Castiel on the shoulder because as there was no clothing separating their touch, it seemed like it would be inappropriate. “Yeah, whatever,” he said as kindly as he could. Castiel gave a sigh of relief, eyes falling closed.  
“Good. Nothing would be much fun without your company.”  
“All right, enough with the fluffy, fuzzy feelings, okay?” Dean said, voice at its normal volume again. “Now, do you wanna jump off the big rock, or not?” he asked, hoping Castiel would say yes.  
“Jump?” Castiel replied, looking at the rock warily.  
“Without mojo. The water catches you.”  
Castiel blinked a few times in thought. “Okay.”  
They swam to the dock, Dean climbed out first, pushing himself up on his arms, swinging a leg up to stand. Castiel tried to copy but twice slipped and fell back with a splash. Dean held out a hand, Castiel took it, and with a foot on the dock, heaved himself to standing with a firm grip around Dean’s wrist.  
Dean led the way around the sandy edge, passing the grassy side on their left, where Lucifer was rolling in the grass and Chevy was eating a tree. Dean’s breeches were hanging very low on his hips, heavy with water - he knew for a fact that they were clinging to his legs and buttocks as he walked, and given that Castiel was right behind him, he was probably getting an eyeful. Whatever, they were both guys, it was nothing new.  
He reached the base of the rock, dark and mossy at the base. It rose from the grass at an angle, slated layers worn down all the way up to the curve of the tip. He turned, about to gesture ‘ladies first’ to Castiel, but as he turned, he failed to catch the angel’s eye, because Castiel’s gaze was on Dean’s lower half.  
“Um,” Dean said, self-consciously touching the drawstring of his breeches. They had lowered to just below his hip, the V of muscle just visible at the sides. Castiel glanced up at his eyes and saw him staring back, but looked back down to study Dean’s midriff.  
Dean frowned. “Cas, the heck are you looking at?”  
“Your...” Castiel started, fingers flicking to his own hip, two fingers tracing the line of his V, dipping below the drawstring. He looked down at his hand and pulled his fingers away from himself, straightening up. “Forgive me, I was just curious.”  
Dean opened his mouth and let out a squeak of air. “You never seen another guy before?”  
Castiel blinked, lips pressed together. He shook his head slowly, twice.  
Dean was troubled by this, but beyond a facial twitch, resolved not to let it show. “Uh, you wanna jump first?” he said, finally getting to point Castiel up the rock. He kept his eyes lowered as he spoke.  
“We can jump together,” Castiel said, passing Dean and climbing up on the rock, feet slapping against it as his breeches dripped a trail of water below him. Dean paused, before following Castiel up onto the rock.  
They stood side-by-side, looking down on the green all around them. The water rippled gently, black depths shaded by the splashes of sunlight that danced clear and golden on its surface. Dean could see the gold flashes of schools of tiny fish as they made their way around the pool. “Ready?” He breathed in deep, all set to leap in straight away.  
But then there was a hand in his, slightly damp, but warm and solid. Dean turned to see his hand having been taken by Castiel, their palms flat together. Dean’s nose flared, and he tugged his hand away, eyes turning back to the pool below.  
“On three,” he said, not unkindly, but forceful enough to let Castiel know he was being rebuked. “One,” he said, toes over the edge. He wouldn’t normally count, but Castiel’s presence was his excuse. “Two.”  
Dean bit the back of his lip. Then he reached over and took Castiel’s hand again, locking their fingers between each other. He didn’t look at his face, but the grip on his hand was welcoming. “Three.” And they leapt, one of Dean’s feet leaving before the other, pushing him off the rock with a forceful shove.  
The world turned from the green-gold pool to a mess of leaves, then the blue of the sky, then plunged wet and cold from air to liquid. Dean felt the pressure on his hand drop as the rush of water hit him, a soft caress but strong like anything.  
He could hardly see under the surface, it was fuzzy on his eyes; he could feel it moving with tiny threads of current across his eyeballs, cool and somewhat pleasant. He kicked and headed for the open air, the sunlight shimmering above. He broke the surface and took a breath, watching the waves roll from his neck in circles. The sun glinted at him off the water, and he looked around and waited for Castiel to surface so he could grin at him.  
He didn’t come up. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, and ducked back under to see where the angel had gotten to.  
It was all dark green under here, shadows of black, trails of leafy water plants forming their own enclosed world. This was what Castiel was admiring, it seemed. He hovered below the surface, holding his breath but not in his mouth - his hands turned to keep him under, legs hanging uselessly.  
Dean swam over, coming to hover beside him. He shrugged, in a ‘what are you doing, man?’ kind of way. Castiel smiled slyly, and reached to take one of Dean’s hands. Dean was a moment away from taking his hand back again, but Castiel realised this and slid his hands by his fingertips up Dean’s forearm, and gripped his elbow instead. Dean frowned in question, but at a tiny nod from the angel, he took Castiel’s elbow too - and then everything changed.  
His eyes could see every colour, every shape - he could make out every rock formation, every plant, every distant fish meandering through the leafy fronds. The sunlight lit everything perfectly, the dust in the water was irrelevant. There was not just the green of the water, but the blue of the sky reflected in everything, the orange of the fish, gold, red, purple. Impossible colours, fantastic shapes.  
He stared at everything, seeing a completely different side to Limn’mere. Not only was there his own world, up in the clearing, but here was Castiel’s world under the water. Dean was elated, overjoyed to find something new in something he thought he knew well.  
And Dean didn’t need to breathe, he was happy just floating there with the angel keeping him from needing air. His lungs didn’t burn, and he had no need to panic, not even when he realised he’d been underwater for more than a couple of minutes now.  
He laughed, and the water that ran into his mouth didn’t bother him. He spat it out, finding the feeling peculiar over his teeth. The water was bitter, earthy. It was familiar, and it brought back all the memories of this place, of swimming here - but never knowing of the other creatures that shared it with him.  
Castiel touched Dean’s shoulder gently, fingers brushing the skin with the hand not already holding onto him. Dean turned to see Castiel looking away, pointing at a large fish, about the size of Dean’s hand. Most of the fish in here were minuscule, no more than a finger at most. This one was white, orange patches across its sides made up of dots of shimmering scales, almost a rainbow in the spectrum of light.  
Castiel reached his free arm out and gestured, beckoning the fish forward like he had with the frog. It shimmied its little wavy tail, rushing toward them. Dean almost gasped as it slowed, looking him in the eye, gaping. He gaped back.  
Gently, it sifted itself through the water, back end turning from side to side and pushing it forward. Dean had never seen a fish up so close, except on his dinner plate. This one was truly glorious, like it was glowing in the darker water.  
As it passed between the angel and the man, they both turned their heads to follow its path; their eyes met for a moment, and Dean realised the expression of wonder that was undoubtedly on his face, was the same one Castiel wore every time he stepped outside the castle, seeing everything in these colours, so clear and vivid.  
Dean blinked slowly, watching as the fish swam away, losing interest. Grinning, Dean pointed at the surface. Castiel nodded, tugging Dean upward by his arm. Dean let him pull him up, and they broke the surface like it was a layer of a bubble, and then the air was back in Dean’s lungs, easy as if he’d never been under the water. He hadn’t needed a breath. He laughed sharply, dropping his arm from Castiel’s, and falling backward to laugh at the sky, bringing his legs up to float and laying out flat.  
“Oh, man, that was friggin’ unbelievable.”  
“You enjoyed that?” Castiel said, a few feet away to Dean’s left.  
“Fuck yes.” Dean didn’t turn his head to look at Castiel, but kept on staring at the sky through the blanket of bright green leaves that whispered some way above them.  
He took in a deep breath, reeling with that thrilling buzz, same as when they lay on the dust after jumping off the castle roof. His heart was still drumming with excitement, fingers twitching. It was a few seconds more of silence before Dean cracked open an eye to see where the angel was. “Cas?”  
There was nobody there, the pool surface was free of anyone but himself. Did Castiel go back under? Dean was about to un-float himself to find out, but a second later, he had no need.  
A steady hand slipped on his lower back, smooth, and - absolutely terrifying.  
Dean spasmed in the water, legs flailing, arms wrenching himself off balance. He was still writhing in shock as a dark-haired head popped out of the water, chuckling. Castiel’s laugh was deep and hollow, and came from within his chest, very honest and seemingly infectious.  
Dean chuckled too, still shivering with tense muscles. “Jesus,” he huffed, voice shaking. “Don’t do that, Cas.”  
“I am Leviathan!” Castiel declared, almost shouting, with fake menace. The effect was ruined by the massive grin he had plastered over his face.  
“Oh, so you’re a sea monster now,” Dean said, amused by the childish joy Castiel was taking in this.  
“I will eat you,” Castiel said, gnashing his teeth once.  
Dean’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he tipped his head back and guffawed, knees weak under the water. “Go on, then,” he challenged, batting his hands through the surface and offering himself as prey to be chased. Castiel took the bait, and leapt after him through the water.  
Dean splashed and shouted as he made his way away, kicking with some buried adrenaline - this was play, something he had missed for so very long. His stomach was twisting as he swam, keeping to the surface while Castiel had dived beneath. Slow hands nipped at his ankles from underwater, and Dean shrieked, although he hoped Castiel didn’t hear that. He swam in awkward circles, dodging the grabbing hands badly, always getting caught on the ankle or on the corner of his breeches.  
One ferocious tug, and he was pulled under the water with a shout of discomposure - he kicked at Castiel’s biting hands, both of them just under the surface, grinning madly at each other. Castiel’s hand got closer, Dean missing the kick - Castiel swiped at his breeches again, taking hold of one leg as it was the only thing he could grab. Dean kicked that leg, but Castiel didn’t let go. Dean kicked again, and realised too late that by doing so, he had forced Castiel’s hand to tug down his breeches, and he was now hovering underwater with his underthings around his thighs.  
Castiel stopped grabbing at him, pulling back with an apologetic expression on his face - but as Dean was stuffing himself back under cover, it did not escape his notice that Castiel’s eyes stayed on his exposed body, not hiding his curiosity.  
Dean was blushing, he could feel the burn under his skin, even in the cool water. He swallowed, and blinking, raised himself to the surface, breaking it and gulping in a lungful of air.  
Castiel came up too, a rapt but shy expression on his face. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to get so excited.”  
Dean trod water again, eyes on Castiel’s slightly parted lips. “It’s fine,” he said, trying for carefree, but coming across as embarrassed as he really was. “You know, I’m starving,” he continued, trying for a change of subject. Or just wanting to get out of the water now. Both.  
“We could eat, then, if you want,” Castiel said, already heading for the bank where the horses grazed. He swam confidently, easily. Much like his froggy friend.  
Dean sighed and followed, swimming arm-over-head, kicking his legs like scissors. Castiel turned to watch him do that, then clumsily copied, improving with every stroke. By the time they touched their feet to the stones in the shallower water, Castiel was a natural.  
Dean held tight to the drawstring of his breeches as he cleared the water, feeling them weigh him down, slipping off his hips and clinging to him at once. He walked to the spread blanket, kicking aside his leather armour with a bare foot. He sat down, then stood right back up again, because damn, his ass was cold and wet. His breeches were clinging to the cool of the air, it soaked into the sodden cloth and chilled Dean until he shivered.  
“I gotta wring these,” he mentioned to Castiel. “If you put your clothes on over those you’ll be freezing,” he said, nodding to Castiel’s own white half-trousers, stuck to his muscular thighs tightly with water. Castiel sat down on the blanket anyway, reaching for the picnic basket. Dean wanted to eat, but he was chilling more by the second, even in the heat of the sun.  
“Don’t look, all right,” he instructed Castiel, turning his back to the sitting angel and untying the drawstring. He removed his underthings and stretched them out to wring them, letting the droplets shower upon the grass. His thighs were clammy in the open air, but dried swiftly in the late spring warmth.  
He pulled the cloth back on with some difficulty, it was twisted and damp - he managed it, re-tied the knot, and swivelled around. Castiel was looking at him, but turned his head away quickly when he saw Dean’s eye on him.  
“Were you _watching_ me?” asked Dean, disbelievingly, coming to sit beside Castiel with a thump.  
Castiel’s eyes were turned down to the morsel of food he held in his hand, picking at it with his fingers. “No,” he said.  
“Liar.”  
Castiel ate the food in his hand guiltily. Dean reached over to the basket and took out some of the same, whatever it was. It was delicious.  
He swallowed his mouthful and lay back, hand across his eyes to keep out the bright sun. He was so very content, his mind right back to all those years ago when he would swim, naked, alone, then come and lie right where he was now, staring up at the sky... This was when he was the safest, the furthest from anyone else. Private, away from prying eyes.  
Right then, was when he realised he’d gotten too settled with his memories. He wrenched his hand away from between his legs, balling it into a fist. Okay, so maybe he used to touch himself after swimming, but he wasn’t alone now. He flicked a glance to Castiel, and Dean was extremely relieved to see he was facing the other way, watching the horses.  
Dean sat up, shifting a leg to hide the slight swell under his breeches.  
“Seriously, you’re gonna get your clothes all wet if you don’t wring those,” Dean said to Cas, nodding at Castiel’s crossed legs with still-dripping breeches. He could see the colour of Castiel’s thighs through the cloth, where the wet white was pasted to him.  
Castiel considered them carefully. “I could use mojo,” he thought out loud, but shook his head and decided against it. He stood up and moved off the blanket, undoing his breeches. Before he dropped them, he turned back to Dean, who had his nose in the basket.  
“You can watch if you want, I don’t mind.”  
Dean tried to fight down another blush. “Nope,” he ground out, grabbing a handful of assorted nuts.  
Castiel rolled the wet cloth off him, revealing a finely toned rear, bent forward on strong thighs to remove the clothing from his ankles. Dean caught a flash of dark skin between Castiel’s legs, before Castiel’s ass filled his view again, somewhere between flat and round, solid - the same colour as the rest of him, no tan lines.  
Castiel wrung the cloth, then pulled it back on, standing on one leg at a time. The slender hips disappeared behind looser, less-wet cloth, and Dean blinked. Had he really just watched that? He turned his head away violently, before Castiel could see him.  
“Dean?” Castiel asked, sitting beside him and taking a slice of sausage out of the basket. “Dean, were you watching me?” he asked, eyeing the back of Dean’s head. Dean wasn’t sure what gave him away, but it might have been the very fierce desire not to look back at Castiel even when he was dressed again.  
“No,” Dean hissed, far too defiant to be believable, and he knew it.  
“Liar.”  
Dean gritted his teeth.  
“Dean... I do know when you’re lying,” Castiel said, calmly. “Not just now. Always, I mean. I can’t help it, it’s an angel thing.” It sounded like a confession.  
Confession. Lying. Dean swallowed and turned back to Castiel, seeing his head dipped low and expression solemn.  
“I’m sorry about your family, Dean,” Castiel whispered.  
Dean tried not to choke on his mouthful of food, swallowing it down. It was tasteless and ashen on his tongue. “You... knew I lied? All along?”  
Castiel nodded gently. He looked up to meet Dean’s eyes, mouth turned down at the corners a little. “You were enjoying the fantasy, so I let you be.”  
Dean put an unsteady hand to his head, hiding his face from Castiel’s gaze. He pressed the flesh of his palm into his eye gently, until he saw red sparks appear in the blackness. A warm hand touched his bare shoulder, and he pulled away, shrugging. The hand reappeared, and with only a reluctant twitch of muscle, he let it stay.  
“You miss them,” Castiel said softly, his hand rubbing up and down a tiny bit. Dean curled up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees, then buried his face in the crooks of his arms. He said nothing, but Castiel didn’t need an answer.  
“I’ve never lost anyone,” Castiel said, hand coming to rest on the back of Dean’s neck, shuffling closer. Dean could feel the heat of his thigh against his own, folds of their damp breeches rubbing almost imperceptibly.  
“Dean?” Castiel asked, thumb brushing the hair at the base of Dean’s skull. “If you look at me, I could feel it, I could know what it feels like for you.”  
“Nobody wants to feel that,” Dean said, his voice thick and muffled against his knees. “Trust me, you don’t want to feel it.”  
Castiel didn’t reply, but Dean heard a soft breath, then his thigh was pressed completely to Castiel’s, and bare skin weighed down on his side, a strong arm around his shoulders. Castiel squeezed, chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean didn’t look up, but sniffed wetly.  
“I hope you never lose anyone again,” Castiel whispered into his neck. Dean felt his skin prickle, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He felt warm, fully comforted by the arm around him, the gentle stroke of a thumb on his bicep.  
“Tell me about your brother?”  
Dean looked up, perched his chin on his knee to look out at the pool and waterfall in front of them, blurred through the tears in his eyes. “I don’t know his name, he was born after I left for the Guard. My parents... they never told Bobby, they had an argument before or something, I don’t know. They never told him they were having a baby, he didn’t know until the people that found their bodies... until they said they found a baby with them. Six months old.” Dean’s voice had broken part way through his words, and he was another surge of emotion away from letting the tears fall from his eyes. He held them in through sheer force of will; guys don’t cry. Not in front of other guys.  
Dean turned to look at Castiel, who pulled his arm back as he met Dean’s gaze. Castiel stared into him, and only barely touched on what he felt, before his eyes filled with tears too, and he looked away.  
“I told you not to,” Dean flared, hands tense on his knees.  
“How can you bear it?” Castiel asked, curling fists across his chest, like he was about to fall apart, trying to hold himself together. “How can you stand this grief, Dean? It hurts so much.”  
Dean swallowed hard, fighting down everything he felt. It was overwhelming. “I deal with it. There’s nothing else to do.”  
Castiel relaxed suddenly, releasing his grip on himself and wrenching one of Dean’s hands into his own, clutching it tightly. “You won’t be alone any longer, Dean.” He looked Dean right in the eye with an animal intensity, focus switching between Dean’s eyes every second or so. “Neither will I.”  
“What?”  
“I can share how you feel. Unburden yourself, I can take it for you.”  
“Cas, no.” Dean shook his head. “People can’t work like that, you have to keep this stuff to yourself sometimes.” His eyes cleared of tears, and he stared down the angel, willing him to understand. “This stuff... it hurts, but it’s not yours to feel.”  
“Then... talk about it, with me. Tell me what you want me to know, and no more.” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder again, letting it slip off slowly, dragging down his upper arm as it went.  
“Now?”  
“Whenever. Any time. I can... _be there_ for you.”  
Dean was a moment away from laughing out loud. A small smile broke through his pained mask, and he snuffled. “So... what, you got my back? That’s it?”  
“There’s nothing more I can offer you.”  
They maintained eye contact for a few more seconds, and Dean could see the smile creeping into Castiel’s eyes as they stared. Castiel wasn’t intruding on his feelings, just looking at him. And yet, his heart felt much lighter. Unburdened.  
Dean let out a breath, wiping his clammy hands on his damp breeches, unravelling himself from his position. “Pass me a sausage,” he muttered, moving on swiftly.  
Castiel passed him the basket, and Dean took a selection of goodies, then Castiel took the basket back, setting it down beside him. Dean looked over at him, then took a double take.  
“Dude, you can move away now. Touchy-feely time’s over.” And he shooed Castiel back with a fluttering hand. Castiel hesitated, unsure, but then scooted away, leaving a sensible amount of space between them.  
Their meal went on in a companionable silence.  
When he was done eating, Dean lay back with his hands behind his head, knees crooked. The grass was prickly under his toes, but the blanket was soft under his hands, and he stroked it mindlessly, rubbing with a thumbnail.  
~  
Eventually they packed up, Dean pulling on his trousers over mostly-dry breeches, while Castiel rolled up the blanket. Tugging his shirt over his head, Dean eyed his new leather armour dubiously. It was really the most uncomfortable thing, and he would much rather wear his old one again.  
“You know, I’ll just put it on when we get back,” he said, shrugging and hanging it over the back of Chevy’s saddle. He put Lucifer’s saddle back on for him, while Castiel dressed himself. Dean pointedly kept himself looking the other way.  
Yeah, he wasn’t naked this time, but Dean was still ashamed of himself for the first time he’d let his eyes linger. Why had he even done that? Maybe Castiel’s curiosity was infectious. Besides, it was only fair, right? Castiel had ogled him, he was just getting his own back. Castiel had even said he didn’t mind if Dean watched.  
Dean cleared his throat and put it out of his mind.  
With a regretful sigh, he led the way as they clopped off into the forest. They kept a steady pace, enjoying the scenery this time around. Everything seemed to glow in this sunlight, leaves shimmering with gold halos from above, even the dirt under the horses’ hooves was bright with patches of light.  
Soon enough they reached the edge of the forest, and Dean let Castiel take the lead as they headed into the bath of sun. The peat underfoot became grass, and Dean took in a deep breath, the cool scent of grass like a sensory border between the world under the trees and the world out in the open.  
He looked across the field they were in - they were still in the kingdom, but outside the border of Zamreer’s citadel. A gigantic carpet of green spread from the drawbridge, the gritty path running through it. Dean and Castiel were trotting to meet the path now, back toward the city.  
“Cas, hang on a bit,” Dean said, calling to the man ahead. Cas heard him and pulled his horse around, Lucifer coming to stand parallel with Chevy, facing away from the city. “I want to show you something.”  
He reversed Chevy with a tug on her reins, and turned back away from the castle citadel and its white walls, speeding to a trot in the opposite direction, still on the grass but heading the same direction as the road. He slowed at the top of a hill, surveying the view.  
The road was some way to their left, meandering dusty yellow in the midst of green, forest trees even further along - from where Dean sat now, there was more forest to his right, a short distance off. That was the side that kept his beloved Limn’mere safe and secret.  
Castiel pulled up right next to Dean, and again, Dean saw the contrast between his own full-black horse and clothes, and Castiel’s white. They must look quite strange, standing up here and looking down on the people that came and went along the path. The picnic basket in Dean’s arms probably looked out of place.  
“There, that’s what I wanted to show you,” said Dean, pointing straight ahead. The path wound into the distance, getting hazy in the warm blue of the air and the dust. Cutting across, far, far away, was a bright blue river, crossed by a red brick bridge. Beyond that was farmland, golden and peach and sweet greens, all cut into uneven squares.  
“That’s the edge of the kingdom. The next part is Evacéra.”  
Castiel looked on in earnest, as did Lucifer.  
“Do you ever think about, just...” Castiel glanced down, then to Dean, “...leaving?”  
“Running away? From the city?”  
“From everything. Never coming back.”  
Dean blinked at him, ignoring an insect that tickled at his cheek. “I used to.”  
“Why did you stop wanting that?”  
Dean huffed a laugh. “I never stopped wanting to. But I stopped believing it could happen. My whole life is here, Cas. There’s nowhere else I could go.”  
Castiel turned his head a little, eyes still on Dean’s. “But there is,” he said quietly, not even needing mojo to know Dean knew differently from what he’d said.  
Lowering his eyes, Dean nodded slowly. “Bobby has a place, an old castle, a few days’ travelling from here. I used to pretend I could just pack up and head over there, never have to come back to training. But I’d been here pretty much my whole life, I realised that wasn’t going to change. And hey,” he added, cheering up. “I made Captain! It wasn’t all for nothin’.”  
Castiel looked at him, and Dean thought he looked quite proud. Of him. Dean turned one corner of his mouth up into a smile.  
“I wish I could leave, Dean.” Castiel said, swallowing and looking off at the bridge again. “I love things at the castle, but I am... sick of them.” He seemed to resent the words, not wanting to admit it.  
“Yeah, I know how that is,” Dean agreed. They stayed and dreamed together for a few more seconds, before real life caught up with Dean’s thoughts. “Come on though,” he said, turning Chevy back to the castle, “I have a Guard to Captain.”  
They started to trot, and they kept up their pace right to the drawbridge. Dean saluted Garth as they passed, but at a call from Castiel, Dean pulled up at the edge of the street, against a clay wall pasted with signs and slogans and splashes of faded paint.  
“I need my ring back,” Castiel said as their horses pulled together. Dean reached for his pocket, wriggling his fingers inside to find the two bands.  
“Oh,” Dean said, a tiny wrench in the pit of his stomach.  
“What is it?” Castiel asked, leaning forward on his horse, bristling.  
“I think they fell out of my pocket.”  
Castiel’s eyes went wide, hands clenched on Lucifer’s reins. “Where?”  
“Uh- uh...” Dean stammered, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he thought, hard. “Probably by the pool, when I took―” he dropped his voice to a whisper, so the runs of people on the ground in the street beside them wouldn’t hear, “when I took my trousers off. They’re most likely still in the grass, they shouldn’t be too hard to find.”  
Castiel took a breath, nodding. “We have to go back and get them.”  
“I’ll go, you stay here. I won’t be long.”  
“I’m coming with you, Dean,” Castiel replied, like it was obvious. “What if they’re somewhere on the forest floor, anywhere the horses ran past? Without mojo you’ll never find them.”  
They had already pulled back into the street, trotting lightly toward the drawbridge again. Dean could still hear his leather armour flapping on the back of Chevy’s saddle. He growled under his breath, getting more frustrated by the minute. He was already several hours late back to training, and he had so much to get through. Damn Missouri, and her badly-timed perfect afternoons.  
“Wait,” Dean said to Castiel, before they crossed the drawbridge. He hopped off his horse, letting her move to the side out of the way of the people. Dean located Garth, swinging the armour off the saddle and going to talk to the man by the gate.  
“Captain,” Garth said, a hint of a question in his tone.  
“Here, look after this, would you?” he said, handing the Captain-branded armour to the skinny Guardsman. “And this.” He handed Garth the near-empty picnic basket. “There’s some salad in there if you’re hungry.”  
“Uh, thank you, Cap... but... hey, is this the official Captain gear?” Garth said, delighted to find the Guard crest on the heart of the armour.  
“Yeah, you’re Captain for a bit, okay? I’ll just be a little while, I’ll be back within an hour. Take good care of that, it’s important.”  
Garth nodded enthusiastically, as he pulled the leather vest over his head and it clunked over him like he was wearing a small barrel. “Not to fear, Cap. You go do your business, I’ll be right here,” he said with a hearty wink and a finger tapping the side of his nose. Dean vaguely wondered what he could mean by that. He mounted again, and together with a worried Castiel, they sped toward the forest.  
~  
“Look, it’s probably at the pool. Quit worrying, we’ll find it.”  
Castiel seemed to be restraining a whine, as they pushed their horses further on. As Dean had been informed, Castiel was running some sort of low-level mojo sweep across the path, trying to pick up a glint or glimmer of the missing rings.  
It wasn’t like they were that big a deal, though, right? Dean asked himself, knowing exactly how much that wasn’t true. Rings were what ran the upper class around here. If you had a Priestess-awarded ring, that put you in the top of the elite, essentially the top of the social food chain.  
The Priestess got the most important one; a double-band of solid gold, a twist of a golden snake around a shining red gem, an ancient ruby that had been around since the dawn of creation - or so the stories said.  
A step down from her were the people of the church, so despite his origins as a drunken off-edge screwy bastard, Bobby Singer had somehow made it to the cream of that crop. He never acted like it, but he practically controlled the entire city, except for any specifics that the Priestess wanted to mess with.  
Now, below Bobby, was Rufus Turner, ex-Captain of the Guard. He’d risen a rank, accepted by the church as a true clergyman. Dean suspected that Bobby had something to do with that, as it wasn’t normal practice.  
Until Dean had been nine and his parents had been lost in the Reaper Massacre, Bobby had been the furthest thing from a ‘Man o’ God’ as a man could possibly be. He had, however, been a good second father to Dean at times, despite his drunken tendencies. Maybe his parents’ deaths had been a turning point for Uncle Bobby, Dean supposed.  
Often, Dean theorised that Bobby had sneaked his way into the church - forged some documents, put on the Father Singer demeanour, and stuck around until someone believed him.  
Why? Because Dean had been nine years old, and had just lost his parents. Bobby had been there for Dean before, and right then was when he needed him more than ever. Dean just accepted it, and Bobby had been Father Singer ever since.  
Castiel’s ring, unlike Dean’s, did not symbolise power over people, only rank. He was higher up than the majority of other angels, higher than the Guardsmen, just about equal with Dean. Dean didn’t know what the point of Castiel having a ring at all was, but at least it meant Raphael was well below Castiel on the scale of I Outrank You, Shut The Fuck Up.  
Dean grinned to himself at this thought. The idea of Castiel using cuss words was really quite amusing.  
Castiel was becoming more and more agitated as they neared Limn’mere for the second time today. Dean didn’t know what the consequences of losing their rings would be, but there was no doubt that it would be bad. And harsh.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean muttered, just loud enough for the angel to hear, as they dismounted and brushed the leaves back at the edge of Limn’mere’s still-sunny clearing. “It was stupid, I should’ve paid attention.”  
“It’s not your fault, I distracted you.”  
“...With what?”  
Castiel began to take a good look at the grass by the pool, leaning forward at the waist slightly. “Nakedness.”  
Dean coughed. “Uh, um, huh―”  
“Here they are,” Castiel said, voice airy with relief. He bent down to pick up two shiny circles from the grass, placing the white bone one in Dean’s open palm. The other, the silver one, he tossed in his own hand, testing its weight.  
The angel let out a slow breath through his nose, teeth gritted. He stared at the ring for a long time.  
Dean would say something to him, but the look of deep thought on Castiel’s features was more of a barrier than an invitation. So Dean blinked and fiddled with his own ring while he observed the other man and his thinking. Castiel’s brow was creased, and something in his eyes was darkening, yet he remained still, just staring at his hand.  
But then he ground his jaw together, angry, wrenching his hand back, ready to throw―  
“Whoa, Cas!” Dean cried, hand around Castiel’s fist, stopping him throwing his ring into the shimmering depths of the pool. “You’ll never find it again!”  
“I don’t want to! I want to be rid of it, Dean!” he shouted, shoving Dean’s hand away and lifting his fist again. Dean grabbed him again.  
“If you lose this, what’ll happen, huh?” Dean challenged, scooping Castiel’s ring from his clutches. “What would the Priestess do when she realises it’s gone?”  
Castiel hyperventilated for a couple of seconds, eyes wandering every which way. “I don’t know. She’d be angry.”  
“Do you really want that?”  
“I don’t want anything. Nothing. Except to escape. I am _trapped_ , Dean.” He turned to look Dean full-on. “I am a prisoner.”  
Castiel dropped his gaze to Dean’s mouth, following the line of his tongue as he grazed his lips, wetting them. Castiel spoke again: “When I am with you, this is the only time in my life, the _only_ time, that I have been free.”  
Dean felt the angel’s sorrow. “But you’re not really,” he uttered, hushed. Castiel shook his head. “You put the ring on when you go back, and you’re hers again.” Castiel closed his eyes, like Dean’s words were causing him pain.  
“Most of the time... I’d rather be here. With you.”  
Dean had no words for his reply. He stepped forward and put a consoling hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and with his head lowered, Castiel leaned into it.  
On a wild, sympathy-driven impulse, Dean leant to press his lips to Castiel’s forehead, sighing so his breath ruffled the lightly-damp spikes of Castiel’s hair. Castiel started, nodding upward in surprise - and headbutting Dean’s nose.  
“Ouh,” Dean grunted, hand on his face as he stepped back.  
“Oh, I’m - I’m sorry,” Castiel said, an arm reaching out like he wanted to pull Dean back. Dean waved an arm at him, making him keep his distance.  
“Guh... I’s... i’s cool, ‘m fine,” he mumbled, holding his bleeding nose.  
“Here, I can fix that―”  
“No, no―” Dean said, fighting Castiel’s approaching arms. But eventually Castiel caught him, and pressed two fingers to his forehead, and the soreness in Dean’s nose fell to nothing. He straightened up, touching his nose gingerly, all the blood gone. “Thought you’re not meant to use mojo.”  
“I’m not. But I hurt you, I had to fix it.”  
“Thanks.”  
“You’re welcome, Dea... Dean, what time is it?” Castiel interrupted himself, glancing at the sky but not able to see the sun.  
“Uh, about four, I think. We were out here a pretty long time―”  
“Dean, I’m late.”  
Castiel strode past Dean and mounted Lucifer’s waiting saddle, kicking into a gallop and whipping through low branches, gone before Dean knew what had happened. He grabbed Chevy and chased after the angel, catching up in less than a minute.  
“Late for what?” he shouted, over the rush of passing air between them, and the thud of hooves across the forest floor as they headed back to the city.  
“The Priestess. She sees me in the afternoon sometimes, I was meant to be there at mid-afternoon, but the sun’s about to go down: I’m late.”  
“It’s not about to go down, you have another couple of hours―”  
“I’m late, Dean!” And with that, Castiel somehow managed to speed his spindly horse to a faster pace, pulling out in front of Dean and Chevy.  
Dean spurred Chevrolet to catch up again, and she was only able to keep pace with the tail of Lucifer; he was fast when Castiel needed him to be, it seemed. “What does she want you for?” Dean called out.  
“She asked to see me specially, she had something she wanted to ask,” Castiel shouted back, half the volume of his voice lost to the passing dust.  
“Not in trouble, are you?” Dean asked, jokingly.  
Castiel replied, turning to face him this time as he spoke: “If I don’t get there in time, I will be.”  
Dean resigned to the fact that they were going to get back a lot sooner than he’d expected, and there was nothing wrong with that. They had their rings, and that was a bucketful of relief for them both. Well, mostly for Dean, as it turned out.  
They bypassed the edge of the forest, not slowing as they galloped into late-afternoon sunlight, still bright, their shadows just that little bit lengthier. Castiel was still ahead as they sped to the drawbridge. When they reached there, they found their path blocked by a throng of people, clamouring to take a look at something just inside the open mouth of the city.  
“All right, all right, break it up,” Dean called out to them all, willing his tired horse on through the crowd. He dismounted as he got to the centre of the commotion. There was Garth - he was sat upon a milking stool, battered and bruised, leaning to one side, up against a heftier companion, who wobbled him around trying to get him to sit by himself. There was no sign of Dean’s armour, which worried Dean.  
Castiel was immediately distracted by this turn of events, temporarily forgetting about his appointment. He pushed to the front of the crowd, crouching in front of Dean as they both checked Garth’s wounds.  
“What happened?” Dean asked the guard that Garth leant against - Ivan, a bearded man with round eyes and a concerned expression.  
“Virgil and a couple of his cronies took a sword to him - not too hard, just―”  
“Are you flipping kidding me, it was as hard as a goddamn Guard training test!” came the sharp response of Garth, wincing as Castiel turned his head to look at his swollen eye.  
“What the hell for?” Dean asked, demanding answers.  
“Why does it have to be _for_ anything,” Ivan said bitterly, but was interrupted by Garth again.  
“They took your armour, Cap’n. Wanted to see how good it would do in battle first, though. I just happened to be the test subject who was wearing it at the time. Uh... they left the salad. It tasted amazing.”  
Dean patted Garth on the shoulder with an open hand, and Garth whimpered. Dean stood, as did Castiel, who gave Garth instructions to go and see a man named Cupid, in the castle’s central infirmary.  
“Do you smell burning?” Castiel asked anyone in earshot, and Dean sniffed the air beside him.  
“Burning leather,” Dean confirmed, eyes squinting. They muscled their way out of the people who were beginning to lose interest in Garth, following the crowd as everyone followed their nose.  
Around the corner, and Dean was met with a sight that, frankly, gave him very mixed feelings.  
The first thought he had, was ‘good riddance’. The second, was ‘oh my God, why are they burning my armour, what the hell, oh crap, now I have to deal with this’. It came out as a long string of panicky words in his head, and he felt his shoulders deflating.  
“Oh, there he is!” came a joyous shout from atop the burning demonstration pyre, Virgil waving an arm toward Dean, drawing the attention of the entire gathered crowd to pale-skinned Dean in his dark shirt and horse-crumpled trousers. Dean wished he still had that tortoise shell of armour to shrink back inside - but there it was, hung on a cross, up in flames.  
“Our new Captain,” Virgil cried out, adamant and headstrong as a prophet. “Our Captain, who has yet to prove he’s worthy. Unfairly winning a fight, never turning up to practice. He’s as bad as the rest of us, wouldn’t you say?” Virgil shouted to the crowd, calling for them to agree. They did. Apparently he’d been riling them up for a while now.  
“But you know what’s _worse?_ ” the tall man bellowed, almost laughing. He stepped off the wooden pyre and strutted down the steps and through the gathered crowd. “He tells people he’s _better_. That he _cares_ about your safety. That he’s doing exactly the same thing as everyone else who is cruel to you, who beats you down - but tells you that he’s being _kind!_ ”  
Dean stood and watched the approaching man with a sickened awe. He’d only been Captain for a few days - and within those days, yes, it was true that he had rarely been around, but he knew how to manage the people that actually turned up. Just about.  
But unfairly winning a fight? No. The sword may have been angel mojo’d, but so was Raphael as a whole. Use what you have. Dean had Castiel.  
Dean look around: Castiel had been pushed back into the crowd; he was still there, but Dean could only see the top of his tufted black hair, and his eyes, as the angel stood on tiptoes to see over people’s heads.  
“You’re a slacker, Captain,” Virgil taunted, the crowd clearing a circle around them as they came face-to-face. Virgil was taller, his face older and with a permanent angry smirk. “And you’re very easily distracted.”  
Dean felt a squirm inside him, telling him it was true. He hated when other people saw the worst in him before he did.  
“What of it, Captain?” Virgil asked, taking a step back with his arms spread wide. “At least Raphael isn’t blind to his own depravity. He knows when someone needs to be taught a lesson,” he grinned. The smell of burning was starting to eat at Dean’s throat.  
“So, Captain.” Virgil dropped his arms to his sides, and growled his last few words out: “What... of... it?”  
Dean swallowed, jaw aching from how tightly he was clenching it. “What... of...” His brain had shut down with the blind panic of having so many people watching him and judging him. And not even neutrally this time - this crowd was already tuned to hate him.  
“That kid,” Dean started, blinking as he forced memories up like bile. “The one Raphael shoved into the gutter because he - what was it―”  
“Stole his money, oh Captain. The child, an urchin. No manners at all.”  
Dean bit out a mirthless laugh, looking around at their crowd. There, just like that, Dean had the upper hand. “Who are these people, Virgil? Take a look at them.” Virgil did.  
“Tell me, how much money do these people make, from the sweat of their labours, hard work, fighting society for everything they have? Tell me.”  
“Does it matter, Winchester?”  
“It does. The child belonged to one of these people. One of these people,” he said again, loud enough so everyone could hear, “who were hungry, who couldn’t feed their children. How much money do you make, Virgil? Just for being on Earth, for rarely showing up to training?”  
Virgil was silent, drawing himself up angrily.  
“To Raphael, one bag of coins was next to nothing, he could spend that much in, ooh, a week.” Dean looked round at the crowd again, seeing mostly older men, some younger women - weavers, pot-makers, tradesmen, livestock-breeders. All of them hard-working people, all of them skinny. “To that child - he knew its value. That child knew those coins could feed his entire family for three times as long.”  
Dean pushed past Virgil and went to stand on the pyre, the flames dying down as they reached the shell of his armour. The crowd turned to watch him, and Dean saw Castiel’s white clothes standing out among the sea of brown. He still held onto their horses.  
“Okay, so I’ve not been a great Captain so far, maybe I do need more practise at this.” He gestured to himself, speaking to the whole crowd as if they were one person.  
“But I don’t hurt people. I know what things mean to people, I know where the line is for punishment. I’m not saying all your kids should come up and pinch my money―” the crowd chuckled - “but I’m not going to _beat your kid to the curb_ because he wanted to feed his family. That’s one example.” Dean held up a finger. “One example, of the many times Raphael and his supporters have gone way, _way_ over the top. I’ve missed a lot of them, but hell, I know some of you lot have seen it.  
“Bessy,” Dean said, waving a hand to a soft-faced blonde woman near the front of the crowd, “I’m sorry to bring this up right now, but we all know what he did to you was inexcusable. One day he’ll get what’s coming to him, he will.” She nodded, and Dean gave her a tight smile.  
Then Dean sighed. “I’m not a bad person,” he said to everyone in front of him. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove that.”  
He leapt off the pyre and nudged his way through the crowd with his head down. He felt a few pats on his back, and a great deal of mumbling, but mostly people kept their distance. He headed for Castiel.  
“Not so fast, Winchester.” Virgil stepped in front of him.  
“Virgil, I don’t have time for this. I have training to get to, believe it or not. You’re meant to be there.”  
“Raphael will be Captain one day, and one day soon.” Virgil pressed a fist to the middle of Dean’s chest, and Dean had no idea what that meant, but it felt threatening. “You will lose.”  
“Sure I will,” Dean said, pushing past again, ignoring the crowd and taking the reins of his horse from the waiting Castiel. Virgil shouted after him, but Dean moved on, tugging Chevy behind him.  
Castiel walked beside him in silence, waiting until there were very few people around them in the street, heading for the castle. Then he said, extremely calmly, “I am very, very late.”  
“I know, I’m sorry.”  
“You won’t lose to Raphael, Dean. God wanted you to win that fight.”  
Dean rolled his eyes. “ _You_ wanted me to win that fight. You made the sword, you helped me. God had nothing to do with that.”  
“God guides every action that happens in this world. If God had wanted you to lose, you would have lost regardless of the sword I made you.”  
Dean was too unsettled to spare that a thought right now. “Go on, get to your meeting,” he said. “I’ll take the horses.”  
Castiel handed him the reins of Lucifer, ready to part ways at the base of the castle, at one of the entrances that Dean assumed led to Castiel’s rooms. It was the same building that had Castiel’s window above the training courtyard, the same one whose top floor was the disused garret.  
Castiel never got further than a few steps toward it, however.  
“Castiel,” a woman said, dressed in a white flowing gown that pinched at the waist and draped off her hips, leaving a triangular trail of cloth in her wake. It was the Priestess. In a flicker of alarm, Dean realised he still had Castiel’s ring in his pocket, confiscated when the angel had tried to dispose of it. He didn’t move, only watched the woman and Castiel approach each other, some way in front of him.  
“You weren’t in your rooms, Castiel, where were you?” She sounded curious, but her tone was on the edge of sharp and reprimanding.  
“Forgive me, your Grace, I was in the library; I lost track of time.” Castiel’s head was hung low, hands twisted together in front of him. Perhaps trying to hide the missing ring, Dean thought.  
“As is, I can’t see you now, anyway,” the Priestess said, coldly. “You kept me waiting, Castiel. I had something very important to say to you, and you are treating me badly.”  
“I understand, it won’t happen again.”  
“It shouldn’t have happened _this_ time. What could possibly be so interesting in the library?” she asked, not frowning, but looking pissed off all the same.  
“I got caught up reading... it - it was a very interesting story.”  
Priestess Masters narrowed her eyes at the angel, lips taut. “I have to see you tonight instead; I have another engagement now. We will be continuing this discussion.” She stalked off, shoes clicking on the cobblestones. “Good afternoon, Captain!” she called to Dean as he stood there, nervously fiddling with the horses’ reins. She diverted her stride toward Dean, hair bobbing around her face as she walked.  
“Shouldn’t you be at training, Captain?” she asked, head tilted to one side. Dean considered, not for the first time, how odd it felt to be called ‘Captain’ rather than just ‘Winchester’.  
“I was just putting these here horses away,” he intoned, running a hand down Chevy’s soft muzzle. “Took ‘em out for a quick trot, give ‘em some exercise.” It wasn’t a lie, not like Castiel had lied to her about being in the library. But it was uncomfortable, the way it wasn’t the whole truth.  
“Two horses? For one man? Who was your second?” She was quirking an eyebrow at Dean, and Dean couldn’t help but feel the gesture was forced familiarity.  
“Uh, yeah. Took Balthazar out with me, he was getting sick of training.” It felt like an extension of Castiel’s lie - it felt easy to let it roll off his tongue like some candied dish that was just that little bit too sweet.  
“Isn’t Balthazar training your Guard right now?” she asked, her brows curving down in a frown. Dean had never seen her frown before. In the background he could see Castiel shifting on his feet anxiously. Was there really as much to fear from this woman as Castiel seemed to believe?  
“Uh - ye- yeah. He came back early, he...” Dean sucked in his lips. “Uh, you know what? Forgive me, I’m - I’m―”  
“Lying your guts out?” she suggested, smiling coolly at him.  
“I took a girl out to the forest,” he said, in the tone of hard-won defeat. He raised the basket in his other hand, showing the Priestess. She pursed her lips like a kiss.  
“This is what you’ve been skipping practice for, I imagine,” she gathered, slender arms crossing over her middle, dainty fingers curling around her own elbows. One of her fingers tapped a beat, and Dean noticed it was the finger with the double-banded ring with an enclosed ruby. Dean realised with a jolt that it was essentially the same design as the hilt of his sword: a faceted ruby that glimmered bright in the sunlight, and a case of wrought gold holding it in place.  
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean admitted with his head down in abashment.  
“Pretty girl, is she?” Priestess Masters asked, voice swift and bouncy. Much like the rest of her demeanour.  
“Very,” Dean said with a helpless grin, a glance up to Castiel behind her, undetectable in its speed.  
The Priestess sighed, a tiny smirk on the corner of her mouth. Her frown had lifted, and all that was left was blatant amusement.  
“You know I cannot allow this, Captain. Not in the middle of practice. I know the kingdoms are at peace, and we have nothing to fight - but you know as well as I do that that won’t always be the case.” She unravelled her arms and placed one line of fingertips on the chest of Dean’s shirt, dragging the cloth an inch or so. “We need you at your station, I’m sure you realise what’s at stake. If you’re going to take your girl out, make it after hours, hm? Take her to a tavern, buy her a drink.” Her tone was kind, gentle. Castiel surely had her wrong? There was nothing cruel in her expression.  
“Besides,” the Priestess continued, brushing some dark hair behind her ears, “you never know what’s out there, those woods are haunted - or, so the legends say.”  
Dean chuckled. “I’ve heard a fair few, yeah,” he nodded.  
“Anyway, Captain,” she said stepping backward, pulling her white dress out from under where she was about to step. “I have an appointment. You’ll keep me up to date with your training, won’t you? Let me know how everyone’s doing?”  
“Of course, your Grace,” Dean said, bending at the waist to press a gentle kiss to her ring. In a second of bewilderment, he thought he tasted some of Castiel’s perfume in her scent: not intoxicating like it had been on the angel, but recognisable. But it was only perfume, and it was gone as soon as she moved her hand away and took her leave, and Dean couldn’t conjure the aroma back to his mind even a second later. Just perfume.  
Dean peered around the horses and watched her as she slid away in the sunshine, a graceful dignity went with her as she crossed the courtyard cobblestones. Castiel was beside him then, a hand on Lucifer’s neck for comfort.  
“I dread tonight,” Castiel told Dean, eyes still on his horse, but Dean knew he was speaking to him.  
“She’s not so bad, Cas,” Dean said, adamant. “You’ll be fine.”  
Castiel did not meet his gaze. “May I have my ring back, please?”  
Dean handed it to him, momentarily hesitant before he placed it in Castiel’s hand, worried he might try and dispose of it again - but then reasoned that the angel was so damn scared of the Priestess, he couldn’t dare. Not any more.  
“You’re overreacting,” Dean said gently. “We can see each other again tomorrow, okay? Just maybe not in the day,” he added with a sideways grin.  
Castiel took in a breath, ready to disagree, but held himself back. “I have to go.”  
He turned and headed for the castle entrance, its archways with huge doors swung open during the day to let the warm air inside.  
“Hey - hey, Cas, wait.” Dean stumbled after him, dropping the horses’ reins for a moment. He sidled up to Castiel and looked down the inch or so between their heights. “Do you wanna meet up tonight?”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “And do what?” he asked, head turned. “Unless you wish to get very wet, we would have to stay inside, there’s a storm coming.”  
Dean glanced at the sky, then at all the horizons around them. Clear blue, all over. He looked back at Castiel with a doubtful expression on his face.  
Castiel pressed his lips together in an amused smile. “You’ll see.”  
And then Castiel left. Dean stood there, grappling with Chevy’s reins, then Lucifer’s (who snorted and pulled away, insisting on following at a distance). Dean led them to the stables, brushed them both down, then sat on a milking stool and thought about life.  
He stared at Chevy as she stuck her nose in a bucket of oats, absent-mindedly rubbing at her rear flank. The smell of the horses was calming to Dean; it had been the bridge between castle life and his great escape for much of his existence. Even before he’d had Chevy, his other (rather more mindless) horses had been good companions - once he’d even had a dog, who ran alongside his galloping steed as he made his way to Limn’mere, or over the bridge into Evacéra. Dean loved to travel, he loved to explore, to learn something new. All of that need, that want - it had all dissipated over the years, the further he sank into Guard training, the harder he worked in becoming the greatest fighter that Zamreer had ever seen.  
It had been something to be proud of, right up until the angels had touched down in the city, one by one making Dean look more and more like an amateur. He’d worked even harder, trained as hard as ever. There’d been no time for anything in his life outside of training, eating, sleeping.  
Gabriel and Anna had been a godsend, they’d helped him win his battles every time. They had nothing to prove. They were quite content to help a friend best their brothers, and like Dean always prayed thanks for, they were reasonable people.  
The other angels, not so much. Dean bore with it. One day he’d make Captain, and he could put them in line.  
Now he’d made his goal. There was nowhere higher to go. And now Dean wanted that escape again - he’d been thrown right back to his teenage years, when he’d gotten his own horse for the first time, allowed to ride out on his own.  
But he wasn’t alone: Castiel was by his side.  
Castiel, to Dean, felt like a guide, pulling Dean back to the freedom he’d yearned for all his life. Why did he have to come now, of all times? He was such a distraction for Dean; it was clear to everyone. Even the Priestess knew it now, even if she thought it was some girl who was the distraction, and not her precious kept angel.  
“Hey―” Dean said, then coughed, because his voice was hollow. He swallowed, then tried again. “Hey, God. It’s me. Dean Winchester. I guess you can hear me, so... Um.” Dean bit his lower lip and stared at the floor, studying Chevy’s hooves as they scuffed the dirt.  
“I’ll start with the thank you again. I have a lot to be thankful for, I always do. I never really say it... you know I think it though, right?” He looked up at the ceiling, the planks of wood coming to a point in the middle of the roof of the stable, beams crossing it. There were vines over the beam, trailing in the gentle through-breeze.  
“Every good thing,” he sighed. “Every good thing that happens, to me, or to anyone. I’m thankful.  
“And - and right now, even if he’s messing up my life... Cas. I’m just... really, really glad...”  
He couldn’t finish his thought, leaning forward on his milking stood and putting his face in his hands. It felt too intimate, too soon. He wasn’t ready to say what he thought he might have been going to say. Yeah, he didn’t even know.  
He didn’t know what he was thinking. It was a feeling, not words. He couldn’t put it into words.  
“Cas said you won me that fight,” Dean continued, resting his forearms on his thighs. The top of his head brushed Chevy’s sleek black leg, and he nudged her affectionately. “I don’t know why - because hell, Raphael was better, and I’m making a crappy Captain so far. I’d pray for help being better but... Jesus, I _know_ I’m good - oh, sorry, sorry,” he muttered, catching the blasphemy too late. “Look, I know I’m a good Captain, but...”  
Dean lost his train of thought, rubbing a horsey hand furiously over his face, mussing his hair. Stubble was grainy on his chin, bristling on his palm.  
“All I want to do right now is goof off with Cas. I can’t - _focus_.”  
Dean squeezed his eyes tight and growled to himself. To say he was feeling torn would be an understatement.  
“Oh Lord,” Dean began in a lighter tone, attempting to summarise. “I pray for guidance, and direction, and a hint at what the fucking hell I’m meant to be doing with my life right now. Why send Cas, if you want me to Captain? Is this a test?” Dean leaned back on the stall wall behind him and kept his eyes on the roof. “Because it’s a sucky test.”  
Dean let out a long breath, dropping his eyes closed. “All right, that’s it for now. That’s all I can...”  
Dean sighed again, and stood up, patting his horse’s rump.  
“See you later, Chevy,” he muttered, easing out of the stall and putting the rope back up. Then he headed out in the sun, making his way to the training courtyard.  
~  
Balthazar was probably a better Captain than Dean was, Dean thought, with a sour bite of his own tongue. He may not be an expert teacher, but he was still a formidable attacker, a skilled defender - and far better at managing difficult students than Dean was. Already Virgil had been captured and brought to justice: polishing every piece of armour and equipment in the Guard’s shed, stuck there until dawn tomorrow morning, or until he was done; whichever came first. _Without_ mojo.  
Dean patted Balthazar on the back in thanks, stepped back, and let him get on with it. Dean could get back to Captaining tomorrow.  
It wasn’t really justice, Dean thought. Justice would have Virgil thrown out of the Guard completely. But alas, simply the name of his species meant he was bound to do the Priestess’ work until the day he died, should it ever come.  
From what Dean could tell, these goddamn angels were immortal. That was all well and good for Cas; his curiosity in the world would outlive them all. But creatures like Raphael were tied to this Earth for just as long. Dean felt for everyone who ever had to deal with them in the future, he really did.  
Dean did up the buckles on the side of his old armour, feeling right at home in the scruffy scratched old thing. It curved with him as he moved, it twisted when he twisted; it swung his sword right along with him. If Dean had his way, he’d wear this raggedy thing until the day he died. Captain of the Guard’s special crest be damned. He liked this second skin.  
He made a stop at the castle’s central infirmary, intending to check on Garth and his multiple bruises. The infirmary was one of the few places in the castle that Dean actually knew how to get to; he’d spent more than his fair share of time here, over the years. Granted, he’d been training here longer than almost everyone, but he was also very prone to picking fights he was bound to lose. He was an idiot like that, really.  
Pushing open the door - of course, it creaked - Dean strode among the rows of beds up along the walls, wooden-framed, grimy and notched, but always with fresh linen sheets, and a line of broken people.  
There was Woody, he’d been here a month now - “Still waiting on that broken leg, huh?” Dean called to him, getting a rude hand gesture in return. Dean chuckled and flipped his finger right back.  
“Move, move, move,” came a hurried voice from behind Dean, and he stepped back against the second row of beds, almost knocking a free-standing candle holder onto an empty cot. He grabbed it in time, righting it.  
Rushing past Dean was a chubby man with scruffy hay-coloured hair, hands full of bottles. Not one bottle, or two - or even four or five, say, the normal amount of bottles that a person could carry. This man was carrying no less than fifteen bottles, and all of them upright and full of sloshing liquids.  
“Still here, Cupid?” Dean asked, perching himself on the end of the bed he was standing by. He could feel the warmth of the setting sun on his back, gentle through the glass windows that ran from the top to bottom of the side wall, all the way along.  
“Nowhere better to be, sweetie,” came the soft reply, and Dean recalled how he’d never been quite comfortable with how Cupid spoke like a woman. He had nothing against Cupid, seeing as he’d fixed almost every malady Dean had ever come in here with - even that nasty case of the clap, which had been dealt with swiftly and quietly. There was nobody better suited to being a healer than a well-mannered fallen angel, Dean mused.  
“Did Garth ever make it here, or did he collapse under his own weight?”  
“Done and dusted in a heartbeat, honey,” Cupid’s voice called from the other end of the infirmary; rushing, always rushing. “Sent him home about a half-hour ago, he’ll be at practice tomorrow. Says he’s giving the gate duty a rest for now, if it’s all right by you.”  
Cupid was already bustling right back to Dean, arms empty now. He veered off to check on some patient’s blotchy red skin, put a hand over their forehead with a pained expression on his pudgy face, then he relaxed and moved off back into the central aisle between beds. The patient’s skin eased its angry red as he passed, still sore and unconscious, but improving.  
Dean made to leave, nothing else to do today. He could tidy his room, but... nah.  
“Did you need help finding Castiel’s quarters tonight?” Cupid asked, catching up with Dean even as he took his first step for the doors. “He told me you wanted to see him, and your sense of direction left something to be desired. Something special planned?” he inquired with a cutesy smile. Dean ground his teeth, nose flaring.  
“Just wanted to say hi. He seemed kinda worried about something the Pr―”  
“―Priestess had to say, yes.” Cupid sighed melancholically. “I’ll take you up there, I have to attend to him anyway.”  
“Attend?”  
Cupid drew his face back in surprise. “He didn’t tell you already? I double as his manservant.”  
“Man... servant?”  
“Were you always this dense, silly?” Cupid muttered fondly, tapping Dean on the side of his head with a finger. “I do his sheets and clothes and things. Run his baths, wash his feet, that sort of stuff. Manservant.”  
“Wash his feet?” Dean repeated, somewhat fazed. “He can’t do that himself?”  
Cupid blinked in thought, then took Dean by the arm and pulled him out of the infirmary, into the darkened, deserted corridor.  
In a whisper, Cupid told him, “Priestess Masters is very insistent he doesn’t use a single ounce of his angel dust. Castiel’s been telling me that he’d not _quite_ been sticking to those rules, has he?”  
Dean swallowed. “Uh, he may have shown me―”  
“Showed off, is more like it. His feet get grubbier every day he sees you - what in Heaven’s name have you been doing with the little mite?”  
Dean almost laughed at Cupid description of Castiel. Castiel was anything but little. And then Dean swallowed down a rising flush of shame that threatened to engulf his face.  
Cupid smiled knowingly. “Oh, I know about that too, don’t worry,” he said at the lowest volume possible. Dean barely heard him.  
“You know about...?”  
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, hon, everyone gets curious now and then,” Cupid said, hushed.  
“Curious - no, I’m not, I’m not―”  
“I told Castiel the same thing, he was all worried he upset you, poor pet.”  
“I’m not upset, I’m just―” Dean took a breath, “and I’m not _curious_.”  
Cupid tilted his head, perhaps trying to look at Dean’s flustered face from a different angle and seeing if it looked any less emotionally violated. “You keep telling yourself that, Deanie.”  
“It’s _Dean_.”  
Cupid patted him on the shoulder and went back inside the darkening room, conjuring up more lit candles with a sweep of his hands across the lines of beds. “I’ll meet you at eight, base of the castle. Wear _quiet_ shoes,” he muttered back over his shoulder.  
“Quiet shoes?” Dean repeated under his breath. Frowning for a second, he laced his fingers over the hilt of his sword and then turned to leave, pacing down the stone-floored tunnel of the castle. There were no candles down here, and Dean just headed for the light at the end, listening to the echo of _tap-tap-tap_ that followed him. Oh, maybe his shoes were quite noisy.  
~  
Eight o‘clock, and Dean stood in the castle foyer, tips of his fingers tapping his sword. His nails were short, rounded at the ends. Maybe a bit chewed, but that only happened when he was nervous, or really bored. Right now he was halfway between both, and so stood there, trying really hard not to fiddle with that hangnail that had presented itself when he’d gotten it too close to a sharpened sword.  
“Right on time, aren’t we always,” Cupid’s soft voice said, from the other side of the entranceway. The doors were closed now, as night had fallen a few hours ago. It was still warm out, but insects had a tendency to creep in endlessly through doors left open at night.  
Cupid wore something similar to Castiel’s white get-up; this one long-sleeved, looser, with cotton rolled to Cupid’s elbows. He wore it over brown trousers and round-toed boots. Dean had never seen him out of his infirmary brown-grey, and thought he looked much better like this.  
“One day, Deanie, you’ll work out how to find your own way around here. You’d think being here nineteen years would be long enough.” Cupid was leading the way up the main staircase, turning right at the top.  
“Show me a sword, or a crossbow, and I can tell you north through south, show you every trick ever possible. But the castle, man, it’s like a goddamn labyrinth.”  
“You’re lucky you can tell your pretty ass from your pretty face, sweetheart.”  
Dean scowled.  
“Oh, no, no,” Cupid moaned, tapping Dean’s cheeks as they turned another corner. “Smile for your angel, won’t you? He likes when you smile.”  
Dean gaped, tugging his face away from Cupids pudgy hands. “He’s not _my_ angel.”  
Cupid rolled his eyes and dragged Dean by the shirt up another staircase. “I hope you’re paying attention, I will not be showing you this again. If you get lost, you’re calling someone else, not me.”  
“What makes you think I’d be able to find anyone else to tell them I’m lost?” Dean replied, sour.  
They cut across the castle in a far more logical way than Castiel had ever shown Dean through the back-corridors. Dean was halfway certain he could actually remember this route.  
“Now, I should tell you,” Cupid said gently, once they had passed out of earshot of a couple of dainty females in long dresses, whom Dean had already slept with, and so gave them little notice, outside of a respectful nod. “I’m going there to be there for Castiel’s meeting. The Priestess is not privy to my presence, and neither should she be of yours. Hence the quiet shoes - well done, by the way, those ones are rather flattering on your thighs.”  
Dean glanced at his thighs, which did look more shapely than he was used to. Huh, not bad.  
“So... we’re snooping.”  
“If you want to put it like that, be my guest. Castiel knows I’m going to be there, he’d rather I knew what was going on.”  
“Does he tell you everything?”  
“He’s told me everything you’ve done together, if that’s what you’re asking. He didn’t have to say it all out loud, either. Angel powers do come in handy, don’t they?”  
“So you know... everything?”  
“He’s really quite smitten with you, you know.”  
Dean fought down a gooey feeling that tried to tickle his stomach. “Whatever.”  
“Here we are - talk in whispers now, won’t you?” Cupid instructed, pushing open the heavy doors to the last corridor that led directly to Castiel’s room. Dean stepped lightly, hand on his sword like it would help him be invisible.  
Here was the final door, behind which Castiel was having that dreaded conversation with her Holy Grace, Priestess Masters. Cupid stepped between Dean and the door, pressing a spread-fingered hand against the pale wood.  
Under his hand, whiteness grew, shimmering and turning yellow as a window was painted onto the door, a messy shape that wobbled as Cupid kept his hand pressed in the middle.  
Dean could see into the room: lit by fifty or more candles, on surfaces and in holders all over the room, none of them near the walls or draped cloth. The ones in the ceiling remained unlit.  
At the foot of the carved white bed, the fallen angel perched. His bare feet were flat against the floor, hands clasped in his lap, head down, as if in prayer. A few steps in front of him, the Priestess paced, the heels of her shoes silent on the soft scrubbed wood of the floor. Her white dress turned over the air behind her, dragging as she twisted to resume another length of her pace.  
Dean and Cupid could see them, but they couldn’t see back. “Nice,” Dean whispered to Cupid. Cupid shrugged, accepting the compliment.  
“Since you clearly have no bearing on your value, Castiel,” the Priestess said curtly, “I shall have to describe it to you.”  
Dean looked her up and down. Her manner was completely different to how she’d been around him his afternoon. She was cold and bitter, her movements sharper and less fluid. She held her eyes half-closed, like she was glaring at everything.  
“I go through endless trouble to protect you, Castiel. The pain it took me to save you in the first place, was - let’s put it this way - never in all your eternal years, could you imagine a pain as great. Great losses, Castiel. Things were lost that can never be regained, nor replaced.  
“You are of greater meaning to this city than any of your brothers; nothing is more important to this city’s survival and continued peace than you are―”  
“Please, tell me how―”  
Castiel’s face was whipped on his cheek by Meg’s fast hand - Dean jumped at the slap of sound it made; it could be nothing but painful.  
“Do not interrupt me, Castiel.” She ground the words through her teeth, lips moving angrily an inch from his face. She wrenched his chin upwards with one hand, pressing her thumb into his stubble. Dean thought she might slap him again, but she dropped her hand, leaving white, fading marks on Castiel’s chin.  
“What were my rules, Castiel? When I saved your life, and brought you here - you, in my debt - what were my rules?”  
Castiel swallowed, breathing shakily. “N-not to use my power.”  
“Have you broken this rule, Castiel?” she asked, innocently. Oh, thought Dean, if only Castiel were better at picking up on tone, he could tell that it was a ploy.  
“I have not,” Castiel said. Dean watched as the Priestess’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, then the whip of movement as she flew to Castiel’s side, hand in his hair, pulling hard, yanking his jaw down as his head was pulled back.  
“Do... not... _lie_... to me, Castiel.”  
Castiel let out a breath of shock, jaw hanging open. Dean’s hand turned on his sword, and he wished Castiel knew how much he wanted to comfort him, just the touch of his hand, a quick glance, a steely reassurance. Even to have Castiel know he was there, watching. But unable to do anything. He would be hung, for sure, no matter how good a trusted fighter he was for her city. He now knew why Castiel dreaded this meeting.  
“Castiel, won’t you tell me,” the Priestess continued, standing up and starting to pace again, “tell me why you have been using your power.”  
“I was only curious, I wanted to see what I could do―”  
“And what _can_ you do, angel?”  
“I can bend nature to my will, the smallest of creatures... I can―” Castiel broke off with a tiny smile and a huff of pleasant memory, “I can call them to me, speak to them...”  
“Is that all?” the Priestess asked, hands behind her back as she stood at the wide window, looking down on the courtyards below. A splatter of light rain hit the glass as she watched, and Dean smiled, because Castiel had been right about the weather. _Of course_ he had been.  
“Yes,” Castiel lied. He didn’t mention Dean, the way he could catch them both in a bed of air, the way he could show Dean another world through his own eyes, just by a touch. Dean felt his heart plummet, because the Priestess would surely know that Castiel didn’t tell her everything. Protecting Dean.  
But the Priestess nodded, turning from the window. “You will not use your power again, do you hear me? Not once. Have no doubt, no―” she strode toward the angel, “―doubt―” she took his chin in her hand again, turning it forcefully toward her, “―at all. I will know. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, your Grace.”  
“Now, tell me,” she added, brushing a gentle hand through Castiel’s soft dark spikes of hair, claws still in his face, “what was my second rule?”  
Castiel’s lip wobbled. “Do not leave the castle.”  
Dean almost gasped. Cupid put a restraining hand on his lower back, and Dean willed himself to focus.  
“Have you broken this rule, Castiel?”  
“I have special permission to visit the bell tower, and the other buildings of the castle,” he recited, eyelids flickering at the sensation of fingernails being drawn over his scalp, “but no, I have not broken this rule. I have stayed within the citadel walls, no further than the main structures. At all times.” He held the Priestess’ fierce gaze as he spoke, and Dean was impressed at how controlled his lying was. He was sure of himself and determined not to let her see his weakness, and Dean respected that endlessly. Castiel was truly a fighter, in his own way.  
“Good,” Priestess Masters said, wrenching her hands away from Castiel’s head with a forceful shove. Castiel touched his sore chin with his fingertips.  
“If I find you ever break my rules again,” she hissed, hands curled like talons on her own hips, “you will never leave this room again. You will never again visit your precious library, nor the bell tower, or see any of your _friends_ ,” she spat.  
Castiel swallowed twice and kept his eyes on his feet as he nodded.  
“I am merciful, Castiel. I let you see the things you claim to love. But how much love can there really be, if you’re so willing to give it up?”  
Castiel said nothing.  
“I will know, Castiel. Believe me, I will know.” She lifted a hand to Castiel’s face, not to hit him, but to drag a gentle finger down his cheek. Then she offered her hand to Castiel’s lips. “You do love me, don’t you?” she whispered.  
“Of course, your Grace,” Castiel said back, and Dean was hurt to hear the sincerity in his voice. His stomach felt clenched and uncomfortable, but it didn’t last - she was headed for the door.  
Cupid wrenched his hand away from the wood and their shimmering window vanished, and he dragged Dean back a few steps with his hand over his mouth. The door opened, and the Priestess stepped into the hallway. Dean wrestled Cupid’s grip for only a second, before realising that the Priestess could not see them, and had walked right past.  
Her white dress trailed through the air, and vanished around the next corner as she stepped through the doors and into the main hallway of the castle. Dean felt the clammy hand fall from his mouth, and his shoulders sagged in relief.  
“Invisibility cloak?” he asked with a quirk in his voice.  
“Even we Cupids get magic powers, silly,” came the reply, but it was not Cupid’s usual cheery tone. He was trembling with worry, and so was Dean, even if Dean hid it better.  
Together they burst through the door to Castiel’s room, Cupid closing it quietly behind them. Dean was already at Castiel’s bed, a consoling hand coming to rest on his turned shoulder, his body face-down on the mattress, fists bunched in the sheets.  
“What if I never see him again, Cupid?” a muffled voice uttered, thick with oncoming tears.  
“I gotta say, that’d hurt a helluva lot,” Dean replied, sitting beside Castiel.  
“Dean?”  
“Right here, buddy.”  
Castiel lifted his face from the sheets, uncrumpling himself to sitting up, leg pressed right against Dean’s. There were tears in his eyes, and his face was half red and sore, but he was smiling. “Dean,” he repeated, putting a hand on Dean’s collarbone, sliding it up against his neck. Dean put his palm over it, leaning in to accept the hug that Castiel fell into, arms swept around Dean’s neck and squeezing his shoulders gently.  
“Did you hear all of it?” Castiel asked him, lips grazing Dean’s shoulder.  
“Think so. The part about you not being allowed to leave the castle... well, that was brand new information,” he said, with fake cheer.  
Castiel seemed to shrink against him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I’m sorry, Dean. If you knew I was going against her wishes so fiercely, you’d never have let me come with you.”  
“Pff, sure I would,” Dean retorted, pulling the angel off him, glancing at Cupid, who was folding clothes, just giving them a moment. “I’m not exactly a stickler for rules, y’know.”  
“Dean,” Castiel said again. Yeah, he knew better.  
“Okay, maybe you’re right. Fine.” Dean set his free hand down on his thigh, the other around Castiel, holding onto his shoulder blade, thumb rubbing him through the white cloth of his shirt. “So we can’t leave again, no more Limn’mere. It’s not a big deal, I can take you―”  
“Dean, no!” Castiel interrupted, a hand held up to stop him. “We’re still going, nothing will take that freedom from us.”  
Dean laughed. “Cas, you heard her, right? She’ll ban you from - _everything_.”  
Castiel’s lip trembled, hands curling into fists on his lap. “No, no. No, she won’t―”  
“It’s not love, Cas. What she’s giving you. You don’t hurt the people you love.”  
“It was only fair, I hurt her by using my power.”  
“Don’t defend her, Cas! What does she use your power for, huh? If you’re not using it, it’s going somewhere, right? She’s not told you, she’s keeping that from you. She hurts you―”  
Castiel made to disagree, but Dean caught his face in his hands, not like the Priestess before, not with grabbing hands, but with a gentle caress. “―Cas, listen. She hurts you, she keeps you trapped. There’s no freedom, you said it yourself.” Dean dropped his hand to Castiel’s hands, sliding them together and locating the silver-white band on the angel’s finger.  
“Look, you’re trapped.” He held up Castiel’s hand, turning in his seat to look at Castiel face-on, their knees bumping at the edge of the bed. “Prisoner. Your words. That’s not love.”  
Castiel turned his words over in his mind. “Then... what is love?”  
The words were burned fiercely into Dean’s mind, ready on his tongue. _Let me show you._ But he couldn’t say that, no. He couldn’t say that.  
“Love is letting someone be happy.”  
“You let me be happy,” Castiel said, a tiny frown between his eyebrows. His eyes were on Dean’s lips, and Dean licked them self-consciously. Castiel tracked the movement.  
“Me and you, it’s not like that.”  
“You don’t love me?”  
Dean’s eyes flickered to Castiel’s mouth, between his eyes, his lips slightly parted. Dean shook his head. “Not like that.”  
“Then how?”  
Dean dropped his head and Castiel’s hand, grinning a little. “We’re friends, Cas. It’s different than love.”  
Castiel stared very hard at the side of Dean’s head, trying to study his mind without breaking inside it. “But... I...”  
“You’ll know love when you feel it, believe me.” Dean stood up, wiping his hands on his shirt. “You meet a girl, and there’s that _spark_ \- there’s nothin’ better. Me ‘n Cassie? It was just like that.”  
Castiel studied the floorboards. “You and Cassie are no longer in love.”  
Dean shrugged, eyes on Cupid as he placed things neatly in an ornate white wardrobe filled with more white things. “Sometimes it doesn’t last.”  
“Will our friendship last?”  
Dean closed his eyes with a smile. Sometimes Castiel asked the sweetest, naivest questions. It was endearing, really. “Let’s hope, Cas.”  
They were silent for a while, the rain on the window splattering harder, coming back into Dean’s focus now his mind was off the madness of the past minutes. “You were right about the storm,” he mentioned, hearing the first roll of thunder rattle the window.  
“I have had six years in which I had nothing to do other than study this planet and all its intricacies. At least,” Castiel said, coming to stand beside Dean looking out over the darkened city, “the parts of it that I can see from here. I was bound to learn how to predict the weather.”  
The view wasn’t much, really. In the dark of the night, the only thing lit was the inside of the church, warm orange spilling out into the rain from its coloured glass windows that were arched all along its sides. It was off to the left of Castiel’s huge curved window, in the mid-distance, a few streets between here and there. Everything else was swallowed in blackness and the haze of falling rain.  
A flash of lightning struck down some miles away, casting sharp, dark shadows of every building in Zamreer. A deep roll of thunder followed it, and Castiel leaned forward, doing the human equivalent of a dog pricking up its ears.  
“I love the thunder,” he supplied, a hand pressed lightly to the window, wanting to get outside. His breath fogged the cool glass, and he reached up with a tiny smile on his face, to draw in the huff. He drew a crossbow arrow, pointing at an low angle toward the sky.  
“What’s that mean?” Dean asked.  
Cupid came to stand beside Dean, on his other side. “Love.”  
Dean squinted. “No it doesn’t.”  
“Try telling that to years of being Cupid, flying around and shooting you guys in the ass with love darts.”  
Dean turned his full attention to Cupid. “You remember Heaven?”  
“I was never an angel, sweet, I have no Heaven to remember.”  
“But... you fell?”  
“Right along with the others, hon.” His voice grew wistful. “Oh, how I long for the days when I could do as little as point you all in the right direction and send you blundering on your merry ways.”  
Dean looked long and hard at the ex-cherub, trying to imagine him in a half-toga with a tiny bow and arrow. Nope, that wasn’t happening. “Weird.”  
“You’re telling me. Seems like the only reason I’m here now is to fix boo-boos and stop Castiel from falling apart, poor thing,” he said, soft gaze resting on Castiel, who was ignoring the two of them in favour of staring out at the rain.  
Cupid stared at Castiel for a long time, his expression growing wearier with every passing second. “Castiel,” he began, stepping closer. “There are plenty of things you can still show Dean, there’s no need to feel like that.”  
Castiel looked away from the window, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Everything I’ve showed Dean and he’s enjoyed, has been using my... mojo.” He seemed to be repeating the thought for Dean’s benefit. “There are very few things in this castle that would interest him. Even if we still snuck out to the forest, undetected... the magic is gone from that place without being able to see it.”  
Dean stepped forward, shaking his head. “That ain’t true and you know it,” he said, voice gruff. “Talking to you doesn’t use your mojo. That’s good enough. Limn’mere was always magic before I saw everything under the water, and now I know it’s there, it’s even more magic. You don’t have to see something to know it exists, Cas,” Dean continued, realising there were more things his words could be applied to than just the underside of his beloved stream pool.  
“The magic comes from sharing it, Missouri was right.” Dean swallowed, patting Sabbath’s hilt in an uneven rhythm for a few seconds. “Everything’s special just by you being there.”  
Okay, that was way too soppy. No way a guy says that to another guy, Dean thought. But this was _Cas_ , he didn’t seem to care that they were both guys. He actually just cared about _Dean_.  
Castiel had still not met his eyes, and was now tracing the lead between window panes with his fingertips, each pane about the size of his hand. “We can still go to Limn’mere,” Castiel repeated. “Another secret.”  
“Your life is nothing but secrets, huh. What’s one more?” Dean said with a goofy grin. He had just talked himself into it, hadn’t he? Damn.  
Castiel locked eyes with him then, emotions Dean didn’t even recognise playing in there. “There is something magical that I can still show you.”  
For a second, Dean had some very awkward mental images - hands in places he wasn’t expecting hands right now. He glanced up and down Castiel in slight shock. “You - don’t mean...”  
“Come with me,” Castiel said, taking Dean by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward the door.  
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, as they left Cupid alone in the cloth-drowned room and the fifty-odd candles bright around him.  
“To the roof!” Castiel replied, pulling him into the main hallway, dropping his arm before Dean had a chance to tug it away, seeing people coming from the other end.  
“The roof? It’s raining!”  
“And there’s lightning,” Castiel added, gleefully.  
“You’re kidding, right?”  
“No.”  
Dean attempted to memorise the direction they took; he assumed by ‘the roof’, Castiel meant somewhere in the vicinity of the garret, and since Dean wanted to know how to get there anyway, he forced himself to store this information as best he could.  
The trouble with Zamreer’s castle, was that there were very few landmarks inside the buildings. Dean could tell the buildings apart, yes, but between each of their numerous floors, there were no statues, all the tapestries looked the same, all the doors were unmarked. The same type of person roamed every floor; the view looked much the same between one floor and the next. It was no great surprise that Dean got lost so often. Having a rapport with almost every young woman who worked here, however, did help. Apparently his cluelessness was ‘endearing’, even among the staff he had not yet had the pleasure of pleasuring.  
Dean instead memorised the turnings they took, which staircase exits they followed, which carpets he almost tripped over. If he could work out how to get to Castiel’s rooms, he could find the garret.  
Good. That was good.  
And here they were; candle-lit corridors eventually led to the darker, dustier side of the penultimate floor, where nobody bothered to put candles. Castiel climbed up first, the air growing stale and colder as they came to the garret, standing in moonlight-bathed and rain-washed shadows. The dust was settled, everything lit with a shimmering pale glow. Lightning flickered and thunder growled beyond the glass.  
The carpet of dust was like sand on a beach, without differences between one patch and the next. There were few disturbances, even where Dean and Castiel had sat last time, before Dean had braved his fight against Raphael.  
Castiel led again, sweeping up a haze of particles behind him; Dean’s own feet stirred it up to his nose, and he sneezed. Castiel jumped and turned around with a stupefied expression on his face, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.  
“What was that, are you okay?” he asked, frantically taking a step toward Dean.  
“Wh―” Dean started, before doubling over in a laugh that had his knees trembling. “I sneezed, Cas, I―” he practically giggled, stomach muscles weak and spasming as he tried to breathe. He straightened up to see Castiel’s face as perplexed as ever. ”People sneeze, to get the dust out of their nose. Or when they’re sick.”  
Castiel’s brow creased. “That seems like a very strange thing to do,” he said, as if stating a conclusion that he had reached. And then he turned back around and kept walking, heading for a slatted door, that had clearly been boarded up, but had the planks wrenched away.  
Dean cautiously followed him, keeping the rattly door open with the tips of his fingers. Behind it was a staircase - another one. It was so dark that the stairs were barely discernible from each other, and Dean only stared at the scaling figure of Castiel as his ghostly white legs climbed with ease in the dark.  
“What’s this, the stairway to Heaven? Is it really possible to get higher up than this?” he called, barely seeing the stiff sway of Castiel’s hips as he was gradually swallowed by the dark. “Cas?”  
Dean hovered at the entrance, not sure if he could willingly follow. It wasn’t so much the dark he was afraid of, nor the height, but - actually, no. It was both. Bigtime.  
“Cas?” he called again, hoping to see friendly blue eyes in his face any second now.  
“Follow me, Dean,” came a small, distant reply.  
“But you’re already gone,” Dean said, helplessly. He felt very not-brave. He should be more than this.  
“I’m up here,” drifted down a deep voice, even more distant. It was being devoured by the rotting wood, bouncing off unfinished planks that lined the wall. Whoever built this place had never completed this staircase.  
Dean whimpered, then kicked at the air, screwing up his face. “The things I do for you, asshole,” he muttered, and followed.  
“I heard that,” came a snide reply from farther away than should have been possible to hear from.  
“You’re cheating.”  
“I’m not using mojo, if that’s what you mean,” Castiel said, a few steps closer now that Dean was climbing into the darkness, treading each creaky stair like it was about to collapse.  
“Then how can you hear me?”  
“You are thinking very loudly.”  
“Reading my mind doesn’t use mojo?”  
“Your _mind_ does,” the angel said, in a philosophical tone. “But your conscious thoughts, no matter how garbled, are easier to read, almost effortlessly. Plus, that particular thought,” Castiel said, right beside Dean, making him jump, “was thought with some venom in my direction.”  
“What am I thinking right now?” Dean quizzed, thinking very hard indeed.  
Castiel squinted at him, stepping into a thin beam of rainy moonlight that cut sharply across his face, making his blue eyes bluer. “I cannot be a bastard, since as an angel I had no parents, and I cannot vouch for the marital status of my vessel’s parents... But before that, what is ‘fucking’?”  
Dean’s face broke into a grin that made his face ache. “Oh man, just to hear you say those words,” he cackled, slapping Castiel on the arm, grabbing and squeezing heartily. “Best day ever, man.”  
“I had fun today too,” Castiel said, thinking back to their impromptu swimming lesson and journeys back and forth through the forest. “I agree. Despite...” Castiel looked down, the wobbly moonlight jittering over his pale skin, “despite the worse parts, today was without doubt the best day of my life.”  
Dean rubbed the hand on Castiel’s arm up and down, only then realising that he had never withdrawn his grip. He dropped his hand back to his side immediately.  
“Hasn’t your life been, like, six years?”  
“Yes. But - please don’t think I’m a child―”  
“I don’t think that, Cas.”  
“You did, on numerous occasions.”  
“I don’t think that any more.”  
Castiel nodded, accepting his word. “I brought you up here to show you something...”  
Dean was dragged back to his earlier thoughts. What could Castiel want to do, all alone in the dark? Alone, but with Dean?  
Dean realised Castiel was probably still prodding at his thoughts, and promptly put up a wall, because what if he was wrong? Castiel didn’t seem to notice anyway, since he had taken a few more steps into the darkness, the both of them on a landing at the top of the stairs.  
“It’s raining outside,” Castiel said, stating the obvious. “You’re going to get wet.”  
“Why are we going outside? On the _roof?_ ”  
Castiel spoke as if it were obvious, “Because there’s lightning.”  
And with that, Castiel wrenched open a square portion of the roof; a door to the outside. Water poured in, but it was ignored. Castiel located a wooden beam and propped it under the heavy raised square, and Dean heard a crunching noise as the post took its weight.  
“Follow me, Dean.”  
Dean didn’t hesitate this time. Castiel crawled out of the trapdoor and into the splash of torrential rain, the hiss of it tickling Dean’s ears. Poking his head out, Dean felt the cold droplets rebounding onto his cheeks, covering his eyelashes with white stars. It was bright out here, even though the moonlight was dimmed by the lashes of rain, and the wind. As Dean levered his torso out of the roof-door, he was hit by gust after gust of icy blasts, wobbling him off balance.  
There was, at the very least, a ten-storey drop off the edge of this roof. Dean had never counted the floors, and right now he wasn’t sure if he was pleased about that or not.  
“Cas, wait!” he called, legs seizing on tiptoes below him, still safely inside. “Cas, I can’t―”  
“I won’t let you fall, Dean.” His voice was buffeted by the wind, drowned by the rain. Dean could hardly see him through the whipping rain that broke between them, rushing like a waterfall over the pale slates of the roof.  
“How can you catch me, without your magic?” Dean yelled back.  
Dean just caught a laugh through the blaze of senses that overwhelmed him. “I can catch you with my arms, I can hold onto you.”  
“Cas!” Dean cried, another flutter of wind threatening to knock him off the roof even while he was still half inside.  
“Take my hand, Dean,” came a soft voice, and a warm hand was over Dean’s ice-cold one, strong and reassuring. Dean took it, and let it pull him onto the roof.  
He leaned against the wind, legs trembling in terror and absolute exhilaration. Never before had he experienced a storm like this: he could see the city lit up as a lightning strike touched down on the other side of the citadel; thunder shook him to his core, like it was wrenching in his gut.  
“Oh, God,” Dean whimpered, clutching the angel’s hot forearm. His skin was still a normal temperature, impossibly, but felt like it was burning under Dean’s rapidly freezing hands. He shivered continuously, teeth chattering.  
“Come this way,” Castiel guided, pulling him to his feet fully, arm around his lower back as they walked together over uneven, slippery tiles. Even as Dean slipped and trembled, Castiel held him steady. “Sit here.”  
Dean sat, his butt on one side of the point of the roof, his shaking legs on the other, fingers gripping the tiled partition like it was his only lifeline. His other hand, his right hand, gripped Castiel’s - knowing that that hand was his true lifeline. He’d be dead right now if the angel weren’t here, he knew it. Why did they always end up like this? Why the roof, of all places?  
Castiel sat beside him on his right, perched slightly higher up.  
“Now w-what?” Dean asked through jabbering teeth. “What are we waiting f-for?”  
“Lightning!” Castiel declared, excited. His hand covered their clasped palms, rubbing some feeling back into Dean’s skin. He could feel Castiel’s warmth spreading through him, not just his hand.  
“Are you u-using mojo?”  
“I can’t have you freezing.”  
“C-Cas, no, st-stop it...”  
“Shut up, Dean.”  
“‘kay.”  
They waited for a few minutes, Cas never ceasing his gentle massage of heat back into Dean, however he was doing it. Then suddenly, Castiel stopped, poised with his chin in the air, searching the sky above.  
“Here it comes,” he whispered, and Dean had no idea how he heard it, but he heard it. It was like all the sound was sucked out of everything, like the whole world had stopped, like the rain stopped - just so Dean could watch this happening.  
Lightning touched down, shimmering up from the ground beside the castle, licking along its sides, crackling with power. It changed every second, jumping and shaking its white lines, but kept its path, creeping toward the angel and the man, the latter who sat there, terrified and unable to do anything about it.  
Castiel sat calmly, neither of them moving, watching the lightning approach them. Then it was at Castiel’s back, and the angel clutched Dean’s hand tight as a vice, but Dean was so numb he barely felt it. He felt nothing but the heat of fire, of the fire that burned bright as the sun right in front of his eyes, dancing its way over the body of the angel.  
Then there was a flash as it hit Castiel’s heart, and Dean was so sure he was blinded, he thought all he would ever see was white - but then an image came clear, vivid and bright as anything.  
There sat Castiel, hand in Dean’s, lightning crackling all over him. His head was bowed, eyes closed. Then, slowly, he raised his head, the buzz of electricity, impossible shapes, rising from his sides, massive, from his back.  
Wings. Wings made of light.  
Castiel raised his eyes with his head, with his rising wings. He met Dean’s overwhelmed gaze, Castiel’s irises clouded over with white; brilliant, stunning white. It faded slightly as their eyes met, and Dean could see the blue of Castiel’s pupils glowing as brightly as the rest of him, a beautiful laugh in them, swimming out between them.  
“Dean,” Castiel said, voice hollow, empty - but whole, all around the both of them, and Dean was almost sure it was the thunder that spoke his name, not the angel.  
“Cas,” Dean replied, paralysed. He smiled, realising he was warm like he’d never left his bed this morning, like he was still laying in the sun by the pool in Limn’mere. He’d never felt this good.  
He laughed, weak and tight in his throat, but it was a laugh of utter joy. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes, and he blinked them away, attention too rapt to miss a second of it to tears, even happy ones.  
The squeeze on his hand was gentle once more, and then it all fell away, the lightning snapped back to the sky, the water poured onto their heads, the wind lashed sharp stinging rain from all sides. It took several long seconds before Dean could use his eyes again, still seeing the crackling lines around his angel like an aura.  
Dean let out a shaking, jittery breath. “Hooooly shit,” he breathed, sure the words were lost to the wind.  
“Not one bit of angel mojo,” Castiel said in his ear, proudly. “That was all me.”  
Dean looked long and hard at Castiel, their faces only a few inches apart. “I’d s-say I’m an easy man to please, Cas, b-but you - Jesus, you g-go above and b-beyond.” He was still shaking, half in awe.  
“I do my best,” Castiel said, quietly. His lips were so very close to Dean’s ear, he could feel his breath on his chilled skin. The hairs that raised on his neck were only a delayed reaction to his shock of seeing a man struck by lightning, absolutely nothing to do with the growl of Castiel’s deep voice against him.  
“W-we need to go inside,” Dean stuttered, hands seizing up with cold. “I’m f-freezing my ass off here.”  
“Your ass is fine, it’s your lips I’m worried about,” Castiel said to him, a hand on his bicep, tugging him, wobbly, to his feet. Dean followed the guiding hand blindly once more, legs clumsy with cold.  
Castiel practically shoved him back down the hole in the roof, Dean landing on all fours in a puddle on the landing, slipping on wet floorboards. The angel followed, landing lightly like a cat, closing the roof behind him before Dean could muster the brainpower to blink. He could feel everything shutting down, slowing like an unwound clock.  
Strong hands dragged him down stairs. He clomped and stumbled, but the hand around his waist held him steady. “What’s wr... wrong with my lipssss?” he asked, thoughts finally catching up with him.  
“They’re turning blue,” Castiel informed him, turning him around in the low light of a hallway. Somehow they had already gone through the garret’s sea of dust, down the flight of stairs, and halfway along a corridor, before Dean knew what was going on.  
Dean tried to focus on the face in front of him, seeing it shimmer like it was underwater. Warm hands held him, warm all over.  
Warm hands.  
That was all Dean remembered that night.  
That was the best night of Dean’s life.


	2. II

“Mmmph.”  
Dean rolled over and took a deep breath, running his hands under the pillow. It was cool and pleasant, and damn, it smelled amazing.  
He nuzzled the cloth under his face, groaning. That was way nicer than usual.  
He took in another breath, trying to work out why it smelled so familiar, yet not the same as what he had woken up to almost every morning for the past nineteen years; it wasn’t his scent.  
Dean rolled his hips into the warm sheets under him, a heavy tingle between his legs. This was totally the best way to wake up, he thought.  
Blinking his eyes open sleepily, Dean took in the calm yellow that flooded his vision, soft and brighter than his mornings ever were. It wasn’t even direct sunlight, like he was used to. It was just really, really radiant. He felt like purring.  
He lifted his head, propping himself on his forearms as he ground his hips again. Was that silk under him?  
Oh yes. He was never sleeping on linen ever again.  
Dean looked around him, rubbing his eyes, blearily wondering where he was. He didn’t really care, because holy crap, wherever it was, it was Heaven.  
It took a few seconds of his slow, dreamy thoughts catching up with him, before he realised he was in the room covered in draped sheets, white cloth everywhere. There were hangings down the side of the bed, the same on the windows - and that open view, so much better in the daylight. Dean could see all the way across to Evacéra’s mountain ranges, glistening golden in mid-morning light.  
He slid back down and groaned again, nose in his pillow.  
No. Not his pillow. Castiel’s pillow.  
Dean jerked up, twisting around so he was sitting, his back against the spindly wooden headboard. He blinked frantically, willing himself to actually work out what the heck happened last night. He’d been freezing, passing out from shock, cold, terror - whatever. Castiel had gripped him tight and dragged him... here, apparently.  
As far as Dean could tell, he was alone in the room, and after his mild panic attack eased, he slid back down under the covers, his hand ruffling his hair.  
He looked to his left, once again languid. And then he near enough had a heart attack.  
“Cas!”  
Dean sat up again, kicking his legs to push himself into the top corner of the bed, blanket pulled up around his middle with grabbing hands. Castiel was lying on the other side of the bed, face still half-covered by excess blanket, blue eyes staring in fascination.  
The angel pushed himself up, mussed hair sticking up at odd angles all over his head, stubble the same length as always. He had no shirt on.  
Dean huffed surprise, then lifted his bunched-up blanket to check his own clothing status.  
“Where are my clothes?” he croaked.  
“Cupid is washing them for you,” Castiel replied, his voice as gritty as ever, no extra thickness from sleep. “You were very wet, and very cold. He made you warm again, I think he saved your life.”  
Dean let out yet another shocked puff of air. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, swallowing hard. He pulled more blanket into his lap, trying to hide the swell there.  
Castiel was kneeling, the other side of the blanket loosely draped across his legs. “That happens to me in the mornings too,” he said, with a glance towards Dean’s protective hands.  
“Uh... huh,” Dean grunted, trying extremely hard not to touch himself with the blanket any more than he needed to. It felt very good indeed.  
“C-Cas... what am I doing here? In your bed?”  
Castiel swivelled to sit in the middle of the bed, knees crooked, arms hung around them. Dean couldn’t help but notice that he was not only not wearing a shirt, but no other clothes either.  
“Are you naked?” Dean added, breathlessly.  
Castiel glanced down at his covered lap, then across to Dean, who was still cowering in the corner of the bed. “Yes.”  
“Why are we both naked, together, in the same bed?” Dean asked, reasonably.  
“You were very cold,” Castiel replied, also reasonably.  
Dean’s jaw trembled. “Did we...?”  
Castiel frowned a slight, clearly not knowing what Dean was implying. Dean assumed the answer was a ‘no’, with great relief.  
“Can I have some clothes? Please?”  
Castiel nodded, once, then slid out from under the sheets and padded over to his wardrobe. Naked.  
“Oh - Cas, no, why are you―” Dean didn’t know where to look, head turning in every direction but always finding that he could always see the pale tan of Castiel’s skin from the corner of his eye. “Oh God, please put some clothes on,” he muttered, finally resorting to closing his eyes.  
There came a knock, three knocks - Dean almost jumped out of his skin, realising he was petrified of being caught naked in another man’s bed while said naked man bent over lithely, finding clothes in his wardrobe. It wasn’t an irrational fear, either, because God, this was _actually happening_.  
Cupid entered, despite hearing no reply from inside. Castiel was unperturbed, and continued to rummage through one of his fancy white drawers. “I have your things, Captain,” Cupid called, happily.  
Dean’s black shirt and trousers, washed and pressed and folded, were placed at his feet, as he kept himself curled in the corner of the bed, hoping nobody would see him.  
“You had a good night last night, or so I heard. A little scary, hm?”  
Dean squeaked, dragging the blanket higher up his chest. There were two other men in this room, one of whom was naked. Dean was still having trouble processing this.  
Castiel turned around, giving Dean a full-frontal view. Dean felt his jaw drop open as he took in a deep, shaking breath, unable to censor his eyes. Crying wasn’t an over-reaction right now, was it?  
“No need to feel so embarrassed, Dean,” Cupid assured him, patting Dean’s leg.  
“But.”  
Castiel pulled a pair of underthings on, and as soon as they were tied, Dean let out a silent prayer of thanks on a sharp breath.  
“Put some clothes on, hon, I made you breakfast.”  
Dean shook his head determinedly, grabbing at the pair of breeches that were in his pile of freshly laundered clothes. “Nope, I’m eating in my own room,” he said, wriggling his lower half awkwardly under the sheets to put his breeches on.  
“You’re not staying?” Castiel asked, seeming downcast. He pulled a white shirt over his head, the same kind of shirt as always.  
“Uh, no.” Dean stood up and turned his back, shoving his feet into his trouser legs, having trouble doing up the buttons over his crotch. He shrugged his shirt over his head and looked around for his sword and scabbard.  
“When will I see you again?” Castiel asked, stepping towards him. Dean stepped back reflexively. Castiel straight away looked heartbroken.  
Dean felt his stomach twist at Castiel’s sad drooping eyes, about to say something; anything that sounded vaguely apologetic, before he spied Sabbath on a white chair by the door, and made a grab for it, tying the thin leather straps around his belt.  
“Look, I’m just gonna go,” Dean muttered, gesturing to the door with a thumb. “Thanks for not letting me freeze to death, but, uh...”  
“I made you uncomfortable,” Castiel recognised, glancing to Dean before he dropped his head again.  
Dean flashed a tiny grin. “Little bit, yeah.”  
Cupid patted Dean on the back, and Dean gulped.  
“See you ‘round, Cas,” Dean forced out, trying to just let him know that this wasn’t the end. It was just way too awkward right now.  
Dean headed for the exit, looking back for only a few seconds once he reached the door. Castiel stood there by himself, one arm hugged around his middle. Dean attempted to smile in apology, but he wasn’t even sure if Castiel saw it. He turned to leave.  
As Dean strode across the castle hallways, working out the way back to the big doors, he considered that that morning hadn’t needed to be awkward at all.  
It wasn’t like he was the girl, waking up in Castiel’s bed the morning after a passionate night between the sheets. He’d passed out and Castiel had given him a place to rest. That was it. Nothing happened that he had need to be ashamed of.  
And yet, there it was; this gut-wrenching feeling that twisted inside him every time he thought of Castiel. It wasn’t new, it had been there a while, but it had taken Dean until now to realise what it was.  
Clearly, it was humiliation, or guilt. For letting Castiel break the rules so badly. Or, excitement for the prospect of breaking them some more. Nothing else would make Dean feel so light-headed or back-handedly giddy at the mere thought of another person. Especially a man.  
Dean reached the foyer and swept out into the morning air, headed for his own rooms.  
With a tiny, disgraceful smile, he wondered what it would be like to make love on silk sheets.  
~  
“ATTeeeeeennnnSHUN!”  
“Gordon, would you quit that? It’s not funny.”  
“Sure it is.”  
“Just be glad there’s no-one around, or you would’a gotten a fist to the face already.”  
Dean sat with his legs hanging off the side of a wooden bench at the side of the training courtyard, waiting for people to turn up. Gordon Walker sat beside him: old friend, training partner since childhood; recently returned from service at Evacéra’s northern borders - some border patrol job, way beneath his skill set. But it was something about a change of scenery that sent him up there, and Dean respected that, even if it was a dumb move.  
“No, but seriously,” Gordon said, nodding slowly. “Captain? Man, that’s some badass shit.”  
Dean laughed, head falling back. “Wouldn’t go that far, I’m not exactly doing a bang-up job as yet.”  
“Pff, who are you kidding. You’re rocking the armour, at least.”  
Dean glanced down at his scuffed black leather vest. “The real important one got burned by a rebel angel, I wouldn’t count that as a success.”  
“These angels,” Gordon started, tone bleeding curiosity, “they give you much trouble?”  
Gordon had never met an angel in his life, Dean realised. He’d left months before they showed up, before Dean even made advanced training. He’d only been, what, nineteen? Gordon was a few years older, and he’d essentially been Dean’s wing man in that messy stage of Dean’s life between kid and adult.  
Notable use of their time together: girls.  
“Gabe and Anna are all right,” Dean said, cocking his head and shrugging one shoulder. “Balthazar’s a bitch but he’s good. Uh... Virgil’s an ass, Raphael’s a dick, Uriel sucks... “  
“Seems like they make a good team then,” Gordon rolled out, grinning. Dean grinned back.  
“Hey, you wanna go for a drink later? Like old times.”  
“Yeah, yeah. Ale, table, cruise the joint, pick up a few chicks? Nice.”  
“Sure, yeah.” Dean couldn’t stop grinning, he was right back there as a nineteen-year-old boy, rearing to go do _adult_ stuff.  
“Bring your angel pals along, I wanna see them outside a fight. Pick up their―”  
“―Weaknesses from all angles of life, yeah, I know. There’s a reason I made Captain, dumbass. I didn’t forget the crap you taught me.”  
“Eh, sometimes it’s good to get a reminder.”  
Dean sat on his hands and sighed on a soft breeze. He could smell summer coming, the air was dustier, heavier.  
“You could’ve made Captain, you know. You were always better than me, you’d have beat Raphael.”  
“But _you_ beat Raphael, which means you’re the best around here. If I’d been here, you’d have been up against me.”  
Dean pressed his lips together. “True.”  
“You deserved it, kid.”  
“Quit callin’ me kid. I’m twenty-six, dude.”  
“Still a kid to me. Pimples and random boners and everything.”  
“Shut up.”  
Gordon chuckled, leaning back on the bench with his elbows hooked over the backrest.  
It was almost ten in the morning, and as always, Dean’s never-fully-assembled Guard, was late.  
“You know what we’re going to do, right now, Winchester?”  
“Hm?”  
“We’re gonna round up your team. Properly this time. Every damn ass in this city that’s meant to be showing up for practice, they’re sure as hell gonna be here by lunch. Got it?”  
Dean frowned. “But how? I can’t get ten of ‘em here, let alone all - what - God, I don’t even know how many there’s meant to be. I never got them all at once.”  
“You’re pathetic.”  
“So you kept telling me.”  
~  
Thirty-five, in all, as it turned out.  
There were a good few faces that Dean had never seen in all his life, but for some reason they were on Rufus’ checklist. Why Dean never got this checklist in the first place, Dean would never know.  
One other thing Dean liked about Gordon, was his indescribable skills of persuasion. It wasn’t a threat, and it wasn’t bribery. But somehow, every single member of the Guard of Zamreer, stood to attention on the white dust of the courtyard - a shambles, but present nonetheless.  
“If you say it, Gordon, I swear I will rip your face off,” Dean hissed, certain that Gordon was about to bellow his lines of fighters to attention, as he’d been aching to do all morning.  
Smiling heinously, Gordon stepped back and gestured to the raggedy bunch of half-asleep men and women. “They’re all yours.”  
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.” Dean shouted at them, dragging their attention to himself. Somehow this was different than making a speech. He didn’t care that none of them wanted to be here, because it was their duty to be here, and duty came above all else. It was common sense to Dean. He hoped he’d be able to get that point across to the rest of them.  
“You all know why you’re here today, don’t you?”  
Silence.  
“ _Don’t you?!_ ”  
“Yes, sir!” came a badly-timed collective response.  
“And why is that? You, with the red hair. No, not Anna, _you_.”  
A young woman stood on the front line, armoured vest form-fitting, and not done up at the front, her cloth top crinkled underneath it. She looked around her, hoping he was looking at someone else.  
“No, really, you. What’s your name?”  
“Charlie?”  
“You don’t sound too sure about your name there, Charlie.”  
Charlie looked Dean up and down, fiddling with a loose tie on her shirt. “I, uh... never completed training. I signed up, never passed the basic.”  
“Man, those tests are _hard_ ,” came a groan from the back, and Dean recognised Garth’s voice.  
“Nice to see you’re up and kicking, Garth,” Dean called across the line of heads, smiling a little. Then he turned back to Charlie. “Seriously? So you’re a novice?”  
“No - I...” She seemed to choke on her own tongue for a moment. “I trained. I just... failed the test. Swordwork’s not my best skill.”  
“What is your best skill?”  
“Uh, glass-blowing.”  
“Glass _blowing?_ ”  
“I make windows,” she clarified. “And other glass things.”  
Dean turned his mouth down at the corners for a split second, vaguely swayed by this admittance. “You still up for a fight?”  
Charlie grinned at him, devilish. “Always, sir.”  
“Thaaat’s the spirit,” he said, slapping her on the shoulder with an open hand.  
He turned back to his crowd. “Anyone else here never pass basic?”  
Six or seven people raised their hands.  
“Anyone pass advanced but drop out?”  
The majority of the crowd stuck their hands in the air.  
“Anyone a slacking angel?”  
With a small self-supportive cheer, four or five angels punched the sky, and punched the surrounding people. They dared not punch back. Dean vowed that these next few sessions would mark the end of that.  
“All right, raise your hand if you actually show up to practice every so often.”  
Gabriel, Anna, Balthazar, Jody, Inias, Christian, and maybe five other people, human and angel, raised their hands. Dean put his palms together and rubbed them, inhaling deeply and preparing himself for a long day. Gordon slapped him on the back and stepped back to watch Dean at work.  
~  
Dean meandered up to the infirmary on his break, much later than usual. It was mid-afternoon, and he was really glad he’d had a big lunch, or he’d have been starving by now. The roast beef the kitchen dished out to the Guard today wasn’t half bad, either. Dean had no idea why more people didn’t show up for training more often. Swinging a sword about for a few hours was a small price to pay for a free meal.  
“Hey, Cupid?” Dean called, flipping the bird to Woody as he passed his bed, even though Woody was asleep.  
“Right here, sweetheart!”  
Dean navigated the maze of beds, cloth dividers and privacy screens. Ah, there he was, back in his muddy-grey woollen shirt and sensible shoes.  
“Is Cas free tonight?”  
“Right to the point today, aren’t we,” Cupid shot back, dumping an armful of folded bedsheets onto a stripped bed.  
“Uh.”  
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Deanie? I’m sure he’d like to see you.”  
“Where does he even hang out in the day?”  
“Library.”  
“Still don’t know where that is.”  
“You do read, don’t you?”  
“Yeah, but not in the library.”  
Cupid rolled his eyes. Dean couldn’t recall him ever doing that in such an irritated manner before.  
“Look, did I―” Dean lowered the volume as a large woman in the bed beside him began to snore loudly, “―did I upset him?”  
“His emotions aren’t as malleable as you seem to think, hon. You don’t mess him up _that_ bad.”  
“I didn’t say th...”  
Cupid wafted a gigantic sheet in the air between them, sweeping it over the thin mattress. “If you say the word, he’ll be there.”  
Dean bit the back of his lip. “Does he really like me that much?”  
Cupid snorted. “He likes you enough.”  
“Enough to drop everything? Seriously?”  
Cupid stood up straight and looked Dean in the eye, a hard glare that somehow also felt like he was patting him on the head. “Why, don’t you feel the same way about him?”  
Dean’s jaw wobbled up and down as he tried to find an answer, eyebrows doing some kind of dance. “I... like him... enough.”  
Cupid shook his head and went back to his bedsheets. “Get lost, I’ll pass the message on. When and where?”  
“Nine, the atrium. Tell him to wear the blue.”  
“He does look rather dashing in that, doesn’t he?” Cupid smiled to himself.  
Privately, Dean agreed wholeheartedly. He really did.  
~  
And so, Dean found himself waiting at the foot of the same stairs for the second time in as many nights. This time, he was waiting for the angel Castiel.  
Dean had no clue how Castiel would take to tonight’s plans: a night in a tavern, scouting for potential bedmates, getting progressively drunker as the night wore on. And in rowdier company than Dean knew he was used to. Taking to it like a duck to water, was not something Dean expected.  
Castiel was a quiet creature, he kept to himself, and his friends were carefully hand-picked. Even Dean himself, had been... what was it? ‘Interesting enough’ that the angel might like him as a friend.  
So, shoving Castiel into Gordon’s company was, to say the least, risky. They were not the kinds of personalities that naturally got along. Gordon was headstrong and forceful, and Castiel, while also forceful, was a different kettle of angelic fish.  
But Dean would rather have him, clueless or not. A late night in a tavern was not something Castiel would ever experience, were it not for tonight’s friendly push.  
Dean paced, kicking the air in front of him with light upswings of his feet. The tiles under him were smooth, polished marble, and he could feel the cold of it through the soles of his boots. Even a full day exposed to sunlight did nothing for it.  
Dean turned again, and movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye. He stilled and looked up, and couldn’t stop his face breaking into a pleased smile.  
Castiel certainly did look good in blue, especially with a return smile on his face. Dean could almost see his eyes glowing from here.  
“Hey there, angel,” Dean passed at him, stepping forward to meet him at the foot of the stairs.  
The smile fell off Castiel’s face. “Please don’t call me that.”  
Dean started. “Huh?”  
Castiel licked his lips, gaze flickering between Dean’s eyes as they stood head-to-head, Castiel an inch or so higher on the last step. “Priestess Masters calls me ‘angel’. I never wanted to say it to her, but I find it derogatory.”  
Dean nodded, dropping his gaze to Castiel’s mouth. “Kinda like calling me ‘human’, I guess.”  
Castiel swallowed a lump of emotion. “Worse than that. I am no longer an angel. It would be like me calling you a dead man, or soulless.”  
Dean shook his head. “I don’t get why you think you love her.”  
“Love comes in many forms, Dean,” Castiel replied, stepping off the blood red carpet and onto the marble. “My love for her is not romantic, nor sexual, nor familial. I simply... love her.”  
“Don’t expect me to understand it, Cas,” Dean said, brushing past and heading for the main door, pushing it open and holding it from the other side for Castiel to step through.  
“I never expect anything of you, Dean.”  
Dean closed the door quietly, eyes on Castiel’s dark hair in the moonlight, then his piercing eyes as he turned to face him. “Well ain’t that just peachy?”  
“I don’t know what that means.”  
“Yeah, well. You wouldn’t.”  
Castiel followed Dean as he headed toward the stables, but turning a corner before they even got halfway there. Castiel hurried to catch up, bare feet scuffling in the dust. “Dean, where are you taking me?”  
“Barrel-Box Tavern, meeting Anna and Gabe there. And Gordon.”  
“Why? And who’s Gordon?”  
“Because getting drunk off your rocker, sleeping with a stranger and waking up with a hangover sent straight from Hell, is fun. And Gordon’s an old friend of mine, he’s helping me out with the Guard.”  
“That doesn’t sound remotely fun. Gordon must be very kind, to help you.”  
“Trust me, it is. And ‘kind’ ain’t a word I’d use for Gordon, but he’s not a bad guy.”  
“I do trust you.”  
Dean turned to blink at Castiel’s openly honest expression, only catching it for a second, before turning left, shoving open a wooden door set into a stone wall. It clinked with a bell as they entered, warm firelight bathing them both, the scent of ale sweet on their tongues.  
“Winchester!”  
“Gordon, hey!” Dean made his way across the crowded room, swerving around round tables with men playing knuckles and dice, smoking pipes and generally being half-drunk rowdy.  
A couple of tavern girls flirted with customers at the bar, doing more alluring than pouring drinks. Joyous shouts came from every side of the tavern, laughter and jeering, people of all creeds chattering amongst themselves.  
Dean plonked himself down on the inside bench seat, his back against the wall. He always picked this seat, he could see what was coming from all sides. He beckoned Castiel toward him, shuffling over so there was room for him between himself and a brown-coated man a short distance over.  
Castiel hesitated, then inched his way into the seat, eyeing Gordon nervously. The dark-skinned man looked over the angel critically, tapping a finger on the table in front of him, slumped back on his chair.  
“This one Gabriel, or Anna?”  
“Anna’s a girl, dude.”  
“This one’s pretty enough to be someone’s sweetheart, huh?” Gordon joked, elbowing Dean in the side. Dean looked at Castiel sidelong, seeing his perplexed expression. It seemed a permanent fixture on his face, really.  
“He’s saying you look good, Cas.”  
“Oh. I thought he meant to insult me.”  
“Yeah. That too.”  
Castiel frowned deeply, a line creasing between his dark eyebrows.  
“This is Castiel,” Dean told Gordon. “Friend of mine.”  
“Unexpected friend,” Gordon countered, taking a swig from the mug in his hand, eyes still on Castiel.  
“Thought you wouldn’t mind. Another guy to size up.”  
“That he is. That... he... is.”  
Dean was surprised to note a tone of threat in Gordon’s voice. Castiel surprisingly picked up on it too, and he bristled, back straight. Dean shook his head a slight. “Play nice, Gordon. When I say ‘friend’, I really mean friend.”  
“Easy. It’s cool,” Gordon said, offering a hand to Castiel.  
Castiel glanced at Dean in question, and Dean widened his eyes at him, mouthing ‘ _shake_ ’.  
Castiel took Gordon’s hand and shook it, impressing Dean by using the exact right amount of pressure: enough to make his mark, not hard enough to hurt. A man’s handshake.  
The tavern door opened once more, and two more fallen angels arrived; the red-haired, slender woman, and the short, fiery prankster. “Anna, Gabe!” Dean welcomed, arm out to them, ushering them to their table.  
Gabriel flicked a pointing finger to the bar, indicating he was going to order them a round of drinks. Anna came to sit, pulling out the last free chair and sitting in it gracefully.  
“Anna, I presume,” Gordon said, taking Anna’s hand and kissing it, dark eyes locked on silver.  
Dean turned to Castiel, pointing at the two of them. “That’s how you do it.” Castiel nodded in acknowledgement.  
“Ale for everybody!” Gabriel shouted, leaning over Anna’s head and dropping five mugs of ale on the table, floating them the last inch so they didn’t spill. Then he conjured himself a fat, feather-stuffed chair, and sank himself into it, feet raised to cross at the ankles atop the table. Anna swatted at them until he rolled his eyes and set them on the floor.  
Gordon considered Gabriel, concluding: “Archangel Gabriel, messenger of God.”  
“Not any more, buddy. Just plain ol’ Gabe, now.” He downed his ale in one long extended gulping motion, then with a wave of his hand, refilled the mug.  
“Neat trick. Why’d you buy ale in the first place, if you can just magic it out of thin air?”  
“Eh,” Gabriel said, shrugging. “Where’s the fun in doing everything with mojo?”  
“I find the most fun comes from the simplest of actions, of human gesture and natural movement,” Castiel said, solemn.  
“Try this for natural movement and human gesture,” Gabriel said, tipping his ale in an over-exaggerated pouring motion over the table, pulling his lips into an ‘o’ and sucking until the amber liquid twisted into a strand, and curled its way through the air to slip inside his mouth.  
Gordon laughed, a slow pulse from low in his throat; his teeth very white against his black skin. Anna resigned herself to a small chuckle, always the last to admit that Gabriel was actually quite amusing.  
“Bag of coins to the first one to puke,” Gabriel said, before belching enormously.  
Dean laughed, falling back against the wall behind him as he took a giant gulp of ale.  
Castiel did not touch his mug. “Dean,” he whispered, when their company’s eyes were on each other rather than Castiel and Dean. “I don’t think this is a good use of your time.”  
“Screw being wise about stuff, Cas. We’re here to have fun.”  
Castiel sucked down his reply, and glared at Dean as he turned and took another sip from his mug. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Castiel gingerly touch the last unattended mug with his fingertips, turning it so the handle faced him. It took several minutes and two more rounds of drinks for Gordon and Gabriel, before Castiel dared try to pick it up.  
Raising it to his lips, Castiel tipped the mug gently, letting one sip wash into his mouth. He turned it with his tongue, exploring the foreign taste. Dean surreptitiously turned to watch him, ignoring the others for a minute.  
Castiel swallowed and looked down at the still-full mug. “Do I have to drink all of this?” he asked Dean, knowing he was watching.  
“Every drop. I challenge you. You finish that mug tonight, you win.”  
“What do I win?”  
“Uh. The ability to drink weird-tasting liquids.”  
“I don’t need that ability.”  
Dean shrugged his lip. “Never know. Might be handy.”  
As Dean predicted, the night wore on hour-by-hour, everybody got steadily drunker - Gabriel in particular, Gordon coming up a close second, never one to be happy with being beaten. Dean wasn’t about to let him know that of all his time on Earth, Gabriel had never puked... ever.  
Anna was content to sit and laugh at her boys, Gabe being his usual trickster self, occasionally turning Gordon’s drink into river-bed sludge, or even viler liquids.  
Dean, as it turned out, had less of an inclination to drink anyone under the table than he originally thought. Tipsy would just about describe him now, but he was reaching tonight’s limit, feeling the warm haze descending as he got comfortable in the laughter and company of friends.  
The entire time, Dean kept his eye on Castiel’s mug, watching the level getting closer to the bottom, every time Castiel took a sip with a distasteful expression, Dean smirked, feeling like he was doing some good in the world.  
He excused himself for a moment to relieve himself, coming back to find a handful of young women draped over Gabriel’s cushy chair, one perched in Dean’s own seat, cradling Gordon’s head in her bosom.  
Castiel and Anna sat stiffly, trying their best to ignore the surrounding antics. Castiel’s eyes were on Dean, he knew, but he ignored him as a curvy blonde woman approached him with an ale on a tray.  
“Gabriel tells me you’re lookin’ for a li’l somethin’-somethin’ tonight,” she said, a strong hand dancing fingertips on the exposed bit of skin at the V of Dean’s open collar.  
“Gabriel wouldn’t be wrong,” Dean replied, smiling warmly at her. He touched the sleeve of her dress, running his hand up its grey-blue cloth to rest at her elbow. “You looking?”  
“I might be.”  
“Fancy that.”  
“What’d yeh like? Skinny? Brown? Good with the lips, or the hands?”  
“What?”  
“Girl, yeh ninny. What’d yeh like?”  
Dean blinked, dumbfounded. “Uh, how ‘bout ‘I like _you_ ’?”  
She laughed, hand on her stomach. “I ain’t for sale, sweet.”  
Dean frowned. “I ain’t looking to buy.”  
The girl tipped her head with a bemused smirk on her lips. “Then yeh ain’t gettin any then, are yeh?”  
“Oh. _Oh_ , right. Um. Fine. Just a girl. Any girl.”  
“That, we got. Back in a sec.”  
Dean turned to watch her walk away, slightly disappointed. He wasn’t one to pay for his pleasure, but sometimes there was not much else to do.  
He went and hung by Castiel until the angel had shuffled the girl further on to Gordon’s lap, making room for Dean - only just enough. He was squeezed uncomfortably between the large brown-coated man, who smelled strongly of rotting apples, and Castiel, who seemed very small in this place. The angel took a final sip of his ale, draining the entire last quarter in one. He slapped it back on the table, then withdrew his hand to hold it clasped with his other in his lap.  
“Want me to buy you a girl, Cas?”  
“Buy?”  
“Just for tonight. She’ll ease you up a little.”  
“ _Ease?_ ”  
“Sex, Cas.”  
Castiel hiccuped. “I don’t want to have sex with a girl,” he said, tonelessly. “Much less have you pay for her services.”  
“Sex feels good Cas. Take my word for it, you’ll like it.”  
“That cannot be true for everyone.”  
“Maybe not.”  
Castiel took a breath in. “If you leave with the girl... what am I to do?”  
“You can make your own way back, right?”  
Castiel’s face twitched, and he looked down at the table.  
“If you get a girl too, I’ll get us a room each, we can stay here until we’re done?”  
“I don’t want to have sex with a girl, Dean.”  
“Pff, suit yourself,” Dean huffed, gulping down the last of his own mug that he’d left on the table. “I’m gonna take her back to my rooms, anyway.”  
“Must you?”  
“Must I what?”  
“Fornicate. With a prostitute.”  
“It’s an honest living, Cas.”  
“That was not the part I was disputing.”  
“...Yeah, Cas. A man needs something now and then. Or don’t you?”  
“There are other methods of pleasure available outside of intercourse.”  
Dean nudged him knowingly, kicking him under the table for good measure. Castiel didn’t react, only stared at Dean and moped. Gordon was muttering strings of nonsense into his girl’s bosom, Gabriel was stroking his companion’s long hair, and Anna poked at her arm with the wrong end of a fork.  
“Captain of the Guard, I hear,” came a voice, a melodic voice.  
Dean looked up and eyed the beauty that looked down at him: a curly-haired blonde, with slow, pear-bottomed hips that were slung with a floor-length brown dress, a dainty pale foot poking out from the hem, toenails painted with henna.  
“Hell-o,” Dean greeted her, standing up and feeling the relief of no longer being pressed between two other bodies.  
“Have me here or take me away?” she asked him, voice low and husky. He tingled.  
“Uh, back to my room, in the castle.”  
“I’d be honoured, Captain.”  
“My pleasure,” he whispered, kissing her hand. She fluttered long eyelashes at him.  
Dean turned back to say his farewells to his friends, and Cas - but Castiel was no longer at the table. Dean heard the cling of the bell of the tavern door, and turned in time to see it closing. Dean shrugged and turned back to his girl.  
“What might I call such a fair maiden?” Wow, maybe he was drunker than he thought.  
“Anything you want to, sugar.”  
“Beautiful.”  
Patting the inebriated Gordon on the back, and flicking Gabriel in the ear, Dean turned to leave, one final touch of Anna’s hair before he left. She swatted his hand away, and that was essentially her acceptance of his affection. He liked how that worked.  
“Shall we go?”  
“I’m with you, honey,” the woman hummed back, eyes glimmering. She looked far too pleased to be hanging on his arm.  
Dean held the door open for her, and she stepped into the street with a clop of heeled shoes. Dean took her by her lower back, guiding her toward the castle. Ahead of them, he could see the blue-and-brown shape of Castiel, almost hidden in moonlight shadows. He was walking slowly, ruminative; his pace wandering aimlessly. He had no purpose.  
Dean and his girl kept their distance, Dean never taking his eye off Castiel up ahead. He could hardly see him when he walked through a black shadow - but when in the light, he was graceful: treading lightly, gliding over the ground, tracing patterns in the sand with his bare feet.  
Dean weighed his moral obligations. Castiel; sex with a girl. Sex with a girl; Castiel.  
In the end, it was really no contest.  
“Hey, um, honey,” Dean said, not liking the unfamiliar name that twisted his tongue. “How about you call it a night?”  
“Already?”  
“I’ll - I’ll pay you, here,” he said, handing her a small handful of coins. She stared at him blankly, not getting the joke.  
“Just, go home. Don’t go back to the tavern, they’ll know I didn’t... uh... Just go home, okay?”  
She shook her head and nodded and he spoke, hesitantly and confusedly. Then Dean nodded once, and moved on, quickening his pace to catch up with Castiel.  
It took a few minutes, Dean didn’t want to seem too hasty. Eventually he sidled up to the other man, trying to act casual.  
“Hey,” he said.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
“I didn’t, um.”  
“So your own hand will satisfy you for a while longer, then,” Castiel surmised.  
“Guess so,” Dean said, with a slightly bashful grin.  
There was a few seconds of silence, wherein Dean and Castiel only walked, unhurried, side-by-side.  
“It’s a beautiful night,” Castiel said, turning his chin to the sky. Dean looked up; thousands of stars glimmered, glinting brighter at the corner of his eye than the ones he looked directly at.  
“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  
“I should like to do something special with it,” Castiel told him. “Go somewhere special. Show you something magical.”  
“Without mojo, though, right?”  
“I’ll see how much I can get away with,” Castiel said, playfully. Dean bit his lip, holding back a warm laugh.  
“Limn’mere?” he suggested, hopeful.  
“Of course.”  
Dean smiled happily, sliding a hand around the crook of Castiel’s elbow and pulling him around the corner toward the stable. The streets were deserted, it was long gone midnight. The moon was full and luminous, the sky cloudless. Dean tugged Castiel, and the further they went, the faster they went. As they turned their heels down the slope that led to the castle stables, they were running - not racing each other, but running together, laughing.  
Dean reached the stable door first, finding it closed and bolted. It always was at night. In all his years, that had never stopped him.  
Using a small dagger off his belt, Dean wrenched the wooden panel away from the wall enough that he could slip the small blade in, unhooking the metal bolt. There was an easier entrance on the other side, but there were few skills he had that he could show off to Castiel, and this was one of the few.  
Dean handed Castiel the swing of the door as it opened, slipping inside and gesturing for him to close it behind him. All the horses were sleeping, heads down and ears twitching in dreams.  
“You get Luci, I’ll get Chevy.”  
“First to have their horse ready, wins,” Castiel said.  
“Wins what?”  
“The ability to dress a large animal in manipulative accessories.”  
“Never know when that might come in handy,” Dean snorted, voice low so as not to disturb the horses.  
Even so, he tried very hard to beat Castiel. It would have helped if Chevy hadn’t jerked awake when he touched her nose gently, and squealed until she realised it was him. Of course, Castiel probably probed Lucifer’s dreams and let him know he was coming.  
A few minutes later, Chevy pulled out into the central aisle, nudging her muzzle irritably into Lucifer’s side. He snorted at her, and she glared back.  
“Easy girl,” Dean whispered, smoothing her neck as he swung up on her back. “Sorry to wake you up, but we have super important secret things to do.” Had she been human, she would have rolled her eyes. As is, she turned her entire head, jerking her bridle with a clack.  
Dean smiled across at Castiel, seeing him fiddling with his reins on his lap.  
“Ready to go?”  
Castiel gave a firm nod, eyes never breaking with Dean’s.  
Dean felt an inexplicable anticipation as he nudged his horse forward into a trot. They left by the front entrance, a wide gaping hole in the barn. Castiel made no comment about how much easier it would have been just to walk around to get in in the first place.  
They rode slowly, careful to keep their horses quiet. They couldn’t be seen leaving; people riding on horseback at night was weird, but to be seen leaving the city was near enough the behaviour of a spy, that they could possibly be hung without mercy, the both of them.  
“We cannot leave by the drawbridge,” Castiel said, asking Dean for a solution.  
Dean turned the thought over in his mind, wondering how else they could leave without alerting anyone to their doing so.  
“There’s a, uh, gap in the wall. In the wall of the city. I used it when I was a kid, riding out when I wasn’t meant to. I never left at night, but... I think it’s still there.”  
“As Captain of the Guard, shouldn’t you be fixing that kind of security risk?”  
“Guess so.” He thought about it. “Tonight’ll be the last time. I’ll get it blocked up tomorrow.”  
“How should we escape any other time we wish to leave at night?”  
“Cross that bridge when we come to it.”  
Castiel was silent for a few moments. “I understand that phrase, now. Language is such a curious phenomenon.”  
“Mm.”  
Dean led the way to the part of the city where he recalled the hole in the wall being. It was within a shadowier part of the upper town, tree branches overhanging everything. The gap in question was well-disguised behind a giant oak tree, white bricks greened with moss and age. They crumbled in a U, loose bricks strewn across the ground and swallowed by overgrown grass. There was a beauty in it, the way it felt relaxed, like the wall had fallen down for a spell and had never bothered getting up again.  
Dean eased his horse through, only just squeezing the gap between wall and tree, barely grazing his leg. Lucifer managed more easily, being slimmer and slightly less bulky.  
When they were together on the outside of the city, Dean held his hand out.  
“Pass me your ring?”  
Castiel handed it to him, pressing it deep into his palm. Dean pocketed it along with his own, then he turned their horses to the forest, heading in the general direction of Limn’mere. He was relying on Castiel’s impeccable sense of direction to guide him, since on his own - particularly at night - he would be hopelessly lost.  
The trees shrouded the moonlight, making it almost impossible to see. Lucifer seemed to glow in the dark, so very white was his coat.  
“Follow me,” Castiel said, voice only hushed because the night was so still. Only a slow-chirping insect broke the silence, the occasional rustle of woodland creatures in the underscrub.  
For minutes and minutes on end, Dean followed the rocking hips of the horse in front, trusting Chevy not to steer him wrong or stumble.  
~  
It was more than half an hour before they approached somewhere that Dean recognised. There was the tree shaped like a windmill, there was the bush with the odd leaves; the tree with the mushrooms on the other side than the one they walked.  
“Here,” Castiel called, turning his head back, eyes catching in the moonlight for only a split second.  
They pulled into the barrier of leaves, Chevy’s knees brushing a whip of branch across Dean’s leg. And then, there they were.  
Dean actually gasped this time.  
He’d never seen this place at night, and couldn’t say whether he regretted that fact. If he had ever seen it before, it would not have been this glorious, never as perfect as the first time. Then again, Dean was never not completely blown away by the absolute resplendence of this place, carved onto the Earth by God Himself.  
Moonlight broke through the canopy of leaves above, sweeping down in beams through the dust in the air, glittering ever so gently. Everything the white light touched, it glowed luminescent, an aura on its surface.  
The grass was held in shadow, all the glory reserved for the enchantment of Limn’mere’s pool. Ahead of them, the surface rippled like molten silver, golden fireflies shimmering above it - hundreds, thousands. All of them bright and dancing.  
The sound of croaking frogs was like a symphony, all out of time, but perfectly in harmony, highs and lows and tiny ribbits of random tune. Some single songbird was whooping and cooing, a night-time melody, of the kind of solitary unison that Dean had never believed real.  
“Cas, are you seeing this?” Dean murmured, letting out a slow breath of awe.  
“In my years on Earth, always seeking out anything beautiful... I have... never looked upon a sight like this,” Castiel replied, just as breathless.  
With a grin, Dean said, “Not even when you saw my face for the first time?” He came to stand beside Castiel, looking out over their private haven. No eyes ever saw this but theirs.  
“That comes in a close second, of course,” Castiel muttered, a low laugh under his whisper.  
Dean chuckled under his breath. “Let’s go sit on the dock?”  
Castiel nodded, and they picked their way across the grass, almost on tiptoes so as not to disturb the stalks; it felt wrong to upset anything.  
Castiel took the first few steps onto the jut of wood that ran a few feet out over the pool, going to stand at the end and staring out at the dancing fireflies that twinkled a little way ahead of him. They looked like tiny golden stars, fallen from the heavens and floating above the water here.  
Dean pulled his boots off, barefoot like the angel. The wood was smooth under his feet, worn down by years of rain, years of Dean running along it to divebomb into the pool.  
Castiel glanced behind him to see Dean there, then bent and rolled up his trousers to his knees, sitting at the end of the dock and dangling his feet in the water. Dean did the same; only enough room to sit side-by-side with their knees just touching.  
“I’m glad we came out tonight, Dean.”  
“Yeah, well. Spending the night with a girl instead of here? Waste of a night, man.”  
“So you’re saying that this is better than sex?”  
“Oh, yeah. This is way better than sex.”  
“I should have that in writing, for the next time you decide you’d rather spend your time with some... female.”  
Dean huffed. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen much more. Not for a while, anyway.”  
Castiel turned to look at him, slightly startled. “Why do you say that?”  
“Eh, I dunno.” Dean shrugged, kicking the water gently. “Feels wrong.”  
“And this feels right.” It wasn’t a question, Castiel was simply stating it for the both of them.  
Foot stabbing at the water, Dean brushed the side of Castiel’s foot with his own, accidentally. Dean jerked his foot back, curling his toes. Castiel made no reaction at all, other than to admire the light of the fireflies.  
Dean blinked, and slid his leg back over to touch the side of his foot to Castiel’s again, testing. He felt the slightest pressure back, and with the gentle flick of his toes over the top of Castiel’s foot, they left their feet there, sitting with them pressed together under the water.  
They sat for a while, the current in the pool just tickling Dean’s toes pleasantly, the heat of Castiel’s foot solid through the wafting water. The burble of the stream waterfall was like background music to the birdsong and the frogs’ night-time singing, and Dean was dizzy with the utter bliss he was feeling.  
This must be Heaven. It must be.  
Castiel raised a hand, wrist relaxed, fingers spread. He turned his hand in a circle - and with it, came the fireflies, spinning in a tunnel of light in the air, their golden reflection in the ripples of the pool, like a drowned fire beneath the water.  
He made the fireflies dance, silver moon sparkling above them, and Dean laughed, eyes wide with wonder.  
“Cas, you gotta quit using your mojo for me,” Dean warned, reaching out a hesitant hand to drag Castiel’s twisting fingers from the air. “It’s a really nice thing to do, and all, but... I can’t have you gettin’ in trouble.”  
Castiel relinquished his control over the tiny insects, letting them get back to being their usual drifting orange stars. “I only sought to please you.”  
“That’s exactly it. I don’t need all this extra shiny stuff. Just you.”  
Castiel swallowed, eyes on the moon’s reflection in the pool.  
“Promise me you won’t use your mojo, Cas. Not unless you really have to.”  
Castiel tried and failed to meet his gaze, eyes only getting as far as his lips before falling back to his lap.  
“Promise me, Cas. Please.”  
“You’re trying to protect me.”  
“Yeah, I am.”  
“Then...” Castiel was clearly thinking very hard. “Dean, I have never had to make a promise before.”  
“Your rules with the Priestess, that was a promise. You broke it.”  
“It was never a promise, I never said the words. She told me what to do, and I did it, until I found I wanted otherwise.”  
“Sometimes you don’t have to say ‘I promise’ to have it be a promise, Cas.”  
Castiel waited a while, then shook his head. “All right,” he started. “All right, I promise _you_. Not her. I promise you, that I will not use my power, unless it is necessary.”  
“Thanks,” Dean whispered, eyes half closed as he watched Castiel swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.  
“Dean?”  
“Mm?” Dean replied, eyes on Castiel’s lips.  
“Would you like to go swimming?”  
Dean broke out of his reverie. He blinked a few times, seeing nothing but circles of blue as Castiel gazed back from right next to him.  
“Do _you_ want to go swimming?”  
“I do.”  
“Well, all right then,” Dean acceded, pulling his feet out of the water and standing up. One side of his foot felt odd, no longer having Castiel’s pressed against it. He’d gotten very used to that warmth up against him.  
He pulled off his shirt and cast it on the dock, which Castiel followed with his shirt landing on top of Dean’s. Dean undid his trousers and pulled them off his feet, feeling rubbery over his wet skin. He stood on the dock in only his breeches, ready to jump, turning to see where Castiel was, and if he wanted to jump together.  
Castiel was right behind him, pulling off his underthings along with his trousers.  
“Uh - Cas?”  
“There is no sun to dry them, we would be cold once we leave the pool.”  
Dean conceded that he had a point, but he tangled his fingers in the drawstring of his breeches, unwilling to pull them off. “Uh,” he said, glancing down at the water, still enjoying the flying gold lights drifting over it. “How about you jump, and I’ll come in after.”  
“You don’t feel comfortable with nudity, even after being so willing to spend the night engaged in intimate relations with a woman?”  
Dean looked straight out in front of him, determined not to look across at the bare flesh of the man standing on his right. “You’re a guy, Cas. We’ve been over this.”  
Dean could just about feel Castiel drop his chin and look down at the water. “You are also a man. You have seen all of your body’s parts. As far as I can tell, we have very little different.”  
Dean took in two consecutive breaths, in half a mind to just stay on the dock and not swim at all.  
“If I jump in, will you promise to come in after me? It would be less fun by myself.”  
“You’re making me promise, Cas?” Dean looked over, not able to help himself. Castiel nodded.  
“Not everything has to be a promise. Sometimes you can just take someone’s word for something.”  
“May I have your word?”  
Dean rolled his eyes to the sky, tipping his head back and sighing into the warm air. “Fine. I’ll jump in. You have my word.”  
“Will you be naked?”  
Dean’s brain stuttered. “I - I’ll work that out in a minute, just... give me some privacy, okay?”  
“Okay,” Castiel said, before taking a two-step running leap into the water, with a tiny laugh of delight as he fell the distance between the dock and the splash of the pool.  
Dean sighed, long and keening. He fiddled with his drawstring, tugging it gently until it fell loose, but still around his middle. It was dark, Castiel wouldn’t see everything. He wasn’t going to stare at him. He wasn’t going to judge. He’d already seen most of it.  
He might even have seen _everything_ last night, Dean realised. Somehow, Dean had been stripped naked of his wet clothes, and bundled into bed. Castiel might even have huddled against him to warm him up.  
Dean felt a flush of heat rise from his chest and up his neck. Maybe there was a tingle of excitement at the thought of the nakedness, but Dean put that down to having had a full night of sex denied tonight. He was bound to be slightly frustrated.  
Castiel hadn’t come up for air, and Dean realised he was waiting for him to jump in, to give him the privacy he’d ordered. Dean swallowed, and let his breeches slip to his ankles. Before he had a chance to change his mind, he leapt from the dock, one foot pushing him far off it, legs coming together mid-leap to curl up against him, and he fell into the water with a splash that surely gave a few fireflies a drenching.  
The water was cool, as always, but refreshing and tingly against his skin. It wasn’t cold; the stream washed down the heat of the ground, all the way from the mountains. In the warmer seasons, this place was never cold.  
Dean unfolded himself once he was fully immersed, feeling the movement of the water on his limbs. It had been so long since he’d been naked in this pool. Six years? It was too long.  
This felt right, too. It felt like how swimming was meant to be, no baggy cloth weighing him down.  
He kicked to the surface, eyes on the sparkling orange dots that hovered and shimmered above his head. He’d never seen fireflies up so close before. Their light was reflecting into his eyes from his wet cheeks, and everything looked subtly orange, even in the blue of the moonlight.  
He grinned as Castiel’s dark hair popped up in front of him, just out of reach; his mouth was under the water, only breathing through his nose right above the surface. His eyes shone happily, the corners of them crinkled a little.  
Dean laughed, not even needing a reason to. He turned backward in the water, bringing his legs up to kick him around on the surface like the rudder of a boat. He reached the middle of the pool, slowed, and lay there and admired the fireflies and the bright twinkles of the stars above them.  
With a splash, Castiel vanished under the water, coming up every few seconds and diving back under. He seemed to be attempting to leave the water like a flying fish, leaping up every time he breached the surface. He only ever got as far as having his lower stomach out in the air, before he fell back under the water with a wash of water over the surface to Dean.  
As Castiel passed him, he reached an arm over to shove at Dean, who shoved him right back, knocking him off course as the angel made another attempt to flip out of the water. Castiel came up laughing, swimming forward to push Dean again, and Dean gave up any idea of lying there peacefully.  
They scrabbled with open hands in the water, swiping water in each other’s faces, their eyes half-closed to stop it stinging so much.  
“Quit it, you ass!” Dean yelled, laughing as he turned his head this way and that, avoiding the relentless surge of water that Castiel sent at him.  
Castiel’s laugh ended in a happy hum, kicking forward to hold onto Dean by his shoulder, thumb resting on his collarbone.  
“Whoa, dude, personal space,” Dean warned, still chuckling.  
“My apologies,” Castiel replied, not moving away, still smiling at Dean from a hand’s breadth away.  
Dean swatted at Castiel’s forearm, tickling his wet hair, making Castiel shudder and convulse against his own arm with a childish shriek.  
“Serves you right,” Dean snickered, kicking Castiel lightly in the stomach, just putting some distance between them.  
Castiel straightened up, treading water, and mock-glared at Dean, eyes speaking nothing but enjoyment. He flipped over in the water, diving underneath by the back of his head, chest following as his arms swung up to guide himself. The pokey bones of his hips broke the water as the rest of him slid under, and Dean caught a flash of dark hair in the middle, before the pale of Castiel’s skin was gone, under the cover of the surface.  
Dean wheezed a sigh, then followed him under.  
Castiel was waiting for him, hovering indolently under the surface, and grinning out a stream of bubbles when he saw Dean coming to join him. He shimmied away like a fish, legs quick and his movements exact. Dean rolled his eyes and followed with a much slower stroke, pulling himself through the current lazily. Twice he came back up for air, chasing the white blur of the angel again once he was back under. Every time, Castiel waited for him, making sure Dean could see him before moving on. It was a pointless chase, but fun nonetheless; had Dean been out in the air, he’d be laughing - it was like running, chasing someone for a game. It was stupidly fun, really.  
They swam around the pool, Castiel slowing every so often in the shadows until Dean got close enough, then would leap out at him, invisible brushes of fingertips on Dean’s thigh. Dean always jerked in shock, pulling back to see Castiel’s goddamn lily-white ass slipping away with a line of disturbed dark water behind him.  
Dean ran out of air every so often, usually from laughing when he hadn’t meant to. This time when he pulled up to the surface, he hung onto one of the mossy wooden legs of the pier, hand curled around it as he ran his hand through his hair, brushing it off his forehead.  
Castiel, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen. He did need to breathe, of course, but for some reason, needed air a hell of a lot less than Dean did. Dean waited for him, toes hanging loosely in open water.  
As he waited, Dean examined his wooden dock, seeing how it was holding together. This thing had taken a very long time to construct, seeing as he could only hold his breath for a short while, and taking measurements underwater was therefore difficult. But he’d managed it within a few hours, and by the end of a week, he had his very own jetty, hewn from a tree he’d felled himself. It was the only bit of woodwork he’d ever done, and despite its slightly wonky frame, it was well-made. Yeah, he was proud of it.  
The fireflies kept on buzzing there above the water, and it was almost a full minute before Castiel got the hint and came up to check on Dean. Dean didn’t see him coming, however.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
“OH!” Dean squawked, flailing and catching himself of the end of the jut of wood, turning and glaring wide-eyed at the fallen angel, who looked extremely pleased with himself. “Jesus, Cas. Why do you keep doing that?”  
“I like that noise you make,” Castiel admitted, sneaking forward and hanging his hand next to Dean’s, both of them hovering beside the end of the dock.  
“What noise?”  
Castiel mimicked his startled cry, and Dean realised that he did, in fact, make a noise exactly like that, the quiet secondary moan under his breath, too.  
Dean let out a distracted huff, sinking lower in the water. “Well, quit it, okay?”  
“I’d rather not,” Castiel said with a less-than-innocent tilt of his head. He reached his free hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes, into a messy clump on his head.  
Dean hesitated before allowing himself to laugh. Castiel looked ridiculous. His hair usually stuck up all over the place, like someone had been running their fingers through it - probably himself - but right now, it looked like he’d been hit in the head by a low-flying bird.  
“Here―” Dean started, uncertainly moving to fix the angel’s hair - but dropping his hand back to the water before he made it there. Castiel’s eyes tracked his aborted movement, then glanced to Dean and simply _looked_ at him. Dean gingerly raised his hand again, feeling the water drip coolly off his fingers and run back to the pool. He moved very slowly, and he didn’t know why. _Get it over and done with, over and done with_. But his arm, it wanted to drag this out.  
Castiel’s eyes stayed fixed on Dean’s, even as Dean’s pale wrist obscured his eyes, spread fingers slipping over his head, combing through his wet, floppy hair. Dean felt their positions in the water give a little, Castiel pushed down by the pressure on his head, Dean bobbing gently in reaction.  
Beneath his fingertips, Castiel’s scalp was warm, smooth under the parting hair. It tickled between Dean’s fingers, but he couldn’t laugh, his chest was held too tight. There was something solid in his throat, a flicker of heat inside him. He realised Castiel’s lips were parted, not as if he were about to speak, but as if he were about to kiss someone.  
This was when Dean realised how close they were, how he could feel the warmth of another naked body through the still of the water, that Castiel’s half-lidded eyes were the only things he could see.  
It took a few moments more to realise that it was not Castiel who had pulled their faces so close, but himself, as he’d drawn his hand down to the back of Castiel’s head and touched the back of his neck slowly, thumb still brushing the give of wet hair.  
Dean gasped, slow and jarring, eyes widening. He slid his hand from Castiel’s neck, shoving him away by his shoulder, wrenching himself back along the side of the pier by sharp slips of his hand across the wood.  
Dean stared at the angel from the far side of the small jetty, unblinking, so very stunned.  
He’d been about to kiss him.  
He’d been about to kiss Castiel.  
Dean gaped, feeling his brain unable to comprehend anything any more. He made to leave, pushing off the wooden pole nearest him, heading for the sandy bank, not registering that his clothes were still up on the dock.  
“Dean, wait,” Castiel called.  
Dean only stopped swimming, hanging in the water below the fireflies, not turning back.  
“Please don’t leave.”  
Dean let his legs drop, not moving to swim away, but not going back, either.  
“Don’t leave me.”  
Dean closed his eyes, treading water but not even thinking about his movements. He heard the swish of water as Castiel swam to catch up with him, pulling around in front of his face, a respectable distance from him, however.  
“We can stop swimming, if you want. Do something else.”  
Dean opened his eyes, focusing in on the concerned expression in front of him. He was expecting awkwardness, shame or embarrassment. But he saw none of that in Castiel, and he felt none himself. He looked at Castiel, and saw only a man that didn’t want to be left on his own.  
“All right.”  
Castiel smiled, relieved. His eyes glanced to the dock, then back to Dean, before making his own way there, head above the water. Dean followed, the pool surface breaking as Castiel attempted to clamber up on the dock. He got a leg up, lost his balance and collided with Dean in the water as he fell back. Dean came up from under him, bruised, but grinning.  
“Dude, you suck.”  
“My upper body strength is apparently not as great as I’d have hoped.”  
“That’s what comes of sitting around all day reading books,” Dean advised him, pushing himself up onto the jetty with a near-effortless heft onto his hands. He swung a leg up, kneeling, and then turned around to help Castiel up with his hand wrapped around Castiel’s forearm.  
Once Castiel got a foot up, Dean stood up and pulled the other man up with him. Castiel smiled at him from his side, their shoulders brushing as he went to get his clothes.  
Dean put his breeches over his damp skin without sparing a glance to the naked Castiel, but as he tied the drawstring, he found his eyes resting on the curve of Castiel’s backside as he pulled his own underthings on, face turned from Dean. Dean‘s eyes fluttered and he wrenched his gaze away, gasping silently at himself. He kept his teeth firmly on his bottom lip as he tugged the rest of his clothes on, rubbing a hand through his hair as soon as his shirt was over it.  
He turned around and met with a smiling angel, who was right back to staring at him as he bunched his sleeves on his arms, blue eyes still locked on Dean while he pulled the shirt over his head and straightened it out.  
“I ever tell you blue looks real good on you?” Dean asked, smirking. He didn’t wait for an answer, and none came, as he sat down on the wooden dock, legs hunched in front of him as he looked out at his beautiful pool. Castiel sat beside him and mirrored his position. They sat there and watched the fireflies, listened to the sweet song of the birds and the frogs, the splash of the waterfall and the lapping water on the legs of the pier.  
It must be close to three in the morning, Dean calculated. He was rarely still up this late, and without a doubt, he was going to be late for church tomorrow. Luckily for him, he hadn’t really had any intention of going.  
He lay back on the dock, wood flat and smooth under him, he felt his muscles spreading out as he relaxed. The cloth of his shirt was stuck to his skin, still wet, but he felt okay. This was okay. This was good, in fact.  
He could see the stars, the fireflies only a glimmer out of his line of sight now. The moon was closer to the horizon, barely a disturbance to the soft twinkle of stars. There were deep caverns of blackness between clusters, but even as he watched, and his eyes adjusted, the darkness became clear with even more stars, even more endless space between them and the rest of the universe.  
“You know any of these constellations, Cas?”  
On Dean’s right, Castiel lay back beside him with a soft sigh, clumping on the wood as he got comfortable. Their shoulders barely touched, shirtsleeves brushing with quiet whispers of material.  
“I memorised the more prominent ones,” Castiel said quietly, that rough timbre of his voice somehow fitting amongst the song of nature that played tonight.  
“You know their stories?”  
“I don’t understand why they look like pictures to you.”  
“They don’t, not really. They have stories that go with them, that makes them the thing they are.”  
Dean saw Castiel blink a few times out of the corner of his eye.  
“I don’t know their stories. I don’t know many human stories, the library doesn’t have any.”  
Dean pressed his lips together, studying the wash of stars that was the Milky Way. “You didn’t find any fairytales, then.”  
“No.”  
Dean sighed softly, putting his hands behind his head.  
“Dean?”  
“Mm?”  
“Would you tell me one of the stories?”  
“A fairytale?”  
“Anything you remember.”  
Dean licked his lips, racking his brain. He only remembered snippets, bits and pieces, never a full story. Nobody had ever told him the stories as a kid - maybe his mother did, but he barely remembered anything before he’d been with the Guard since age seven.  
“Uh, all right. ...There’s this princess, and, a - a thief. They meet someplace, um―”  
“Do they fall in love?”  
Dean blinked. “Yeah, I guess.”  
“Can the princess be a prince?”  
Dean smiled and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. So this prince, he meets this thief, and, I dunno, something about a magic ring? She gets trapped in this cave. The thief, I mean, not the prince―”  
“―She?” Castiel asked, head turning to look at Dean.  
Dean turned to look back at Castiel. “You said you wanted the princess to be a prince.”  
“The thief is a girl thief?”  
“Well it was a guy in the real story, but you said you wanted the princess to be a prince, so I figured that made the thief a girl―”  
“I want them both to be men.”  
Dean frowned up at the sky. “Why?”  
Castiel stuttered, “I - I just do.”  
Dean rolled his eyes again, huffing. “So, anyway, there’s this djinni that turns up, and he makes the thief some wishes, and he wishes to be rich, so he can marry the princess - _prince_...”  
Dean trailed off, licking his lips as he squinted at the stars. “Cas, can I tell this story how it’s meant to be? This is weird.”  
“I like this story,” Castiel protested.  
“No, it’s weird.” Dean put a hand on his stomach, a half-move toward crossing his arms, before realising that would be stupid, because he was lying down. “You know what, I’m telling a different story, I don’t remember this one.”  
Castiel said nothing, turning back to stare at the heavens.  
“I kind of remember the story about the frog,” Dean thought aloud, pulling his hands together on his stomach, then letting them fall to his sides, finger tapping on the wood as he tried to recall everything.  
“There’s this king, and he has three sons. He, uh, gets them each to shoot an arrow, and says that wherever it lands, that’s where their future wife will be. Um, so the first two find a princess, and this third one, he gets a frog. But the frog, she’s like, secretly a princess―”  
“Can they both be princes?”  
“Shut it, Cas, I’m telling it like how it’s meant to be.”  
Castiel opened his mouth to complain, and promptly shut it at a glare from Dean. “I’m imagining them both as princes in my head,” he said, sternly.  
Dean kept on glaring at the side of Castiel’s head as Castiel glared at the stars above. “So this frog. The king sets the princesses tasks, and this frog is way better at everything than the other girls. She uses mojo or somethin’, I dunno.”  
Dean eased his glare when he saw Castiel had closed his eyes, playing the story out in his mind. Dean only watched him then, watched his eyes moving behind his lids as Dean spoke.  
“But the prince, he thinks this frog is, like, really gross. Because it’s a frog. And frogs are seriously gross,” Dean said, pointedly, waiting for Castiel’s reaction. Castiel only smiled with closed eyes, and Dean smiled too, and kept on with the story.  
“But, uh, for some reason, he lets it sleep on his pillow.” Dean flicked his eyelids, trying to remember why that was, but the reason escaped him.  
“And he wakes up, and there’s this girl there...” Dean grinned. “Bet she’s naked, ‘cause frogs don’t wear clothes.”  
Castiel licked his lips, eyes still firmly shut. “D-do they kiss?” he asked, voice husky.  
Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I guess.”  
Castiel gasped, very, very slowly, chin tipping up and lips wet.  
Dean frowned at him, not sure why he was reacting like that. “Dude, what are you―”  
Castiel’s eyes snapped open, gasping again, but this time quietly, and in surprise. He turned to look at Dean guiltily, gaze jumping between Dean’s frowning eyes. “I, um...” Castiel muttered. He looked back to the sky, swallowing.  
“Cas, were you seriously imagining them as guys?”  
Castiel nodded slowly, swallowing again.  
“You know guys don’t kiss in real life?” Dean asked him, not unkindly.  
Quietly, Castiel said, “I realise that.”  
“And frogs don’t turn into princes.” Castiel glanced at Dean, who was staring empathetically at the angel. “So kissing your frog won’t help you there.”  
“I don’t need a prince,” Castiel whispered.  
Dean huffed through his nose, turning his head away and staring at the far bank, watching the water lap at the sand in the distance. Everything looked strange in the dark, and on its side. After a silent minute, Dean returned his gaze to the sky.  
Only a few seconds later, a line of white blazed across his sight: a shooting star. “Did you see that, Cas?” he said, excitedly. He’d rarely seen them, maybe less than ten times in his life.  
“See what?”  
“Shooting star.”  
“No,” Castiel said, sadly.  
“When you see them, you can make a wish.”  
“Like the thief who wished to be rich.”  
Dean rolled his head on the wood to look at him. “Have you ever wished before?”  
“It’s not the same as praying, is it?”  
“No,” Dean replied. He took in a breath, thinking about what he would wish for. Family, he’d always wish for family. But that was impossible. Success, money, recognition, friends who cared about him, happiness. He had it all. “I don’t have anything to wish for,” he whispered, feeling a minute surge of emotion that left his mouth dry. He wet his lips and turned to Castiel again. “You can have my wish, if you want.”  
Castiel blinked at him, eyes shining happily. “How do I make a wish?”  
“Close your eyes, think of something you want... then say ‘I wish’, and then say it.”  
Castiel chewed his tongue in his mouth for a second, thinking. “I... wish... that you―”  
“Don’t say it out loud, Cas.”  
Castiel glanced at him, then lay flat on his back with his eyes closed for a few seconds. When he blinked his eyes open, he smiled. “I hope it comes true.”  
“If I had a wish too, I’d wish yours comes true,” Dean laughed, chuckling deep in his chest. “It’s awesome when that stuff actually happens.”  
“Did you ever have a wish come true?”  
“Yeah, I did. I wished for the best horse in Zamreer. Hell,” he said, looking over to Chevy and Lucifer, whose heads were hung low as they slept, “I got her.”  
“I’m happy for you,” Castiel said, looking at Dean sincerely when he lay back down. “Chevrolet is a very beautiful horse.”  
“Lucifer’s not so bad, once you get past the whole ex-Devil thing.”  
Castiel closed his eyes after a couple of thoughtful blinks. Dean watched his flickering eyelids and realised that he too was very sleepy. He sighed, stretched out on the wooden planks, then lay still with one hand under his head, one knee crooked. He closed his eyes, and began to breathe slower.  
Well, that only lasted a minute or so.  
He heard Castiel turn on his side next to him, and the heat on his side not only meant he was very close to him, but also that he was being stared at. Dean only flinched a little when he felt a fingertip on his skin, between his shirt and trousers, where his shirt had ridden up along his stomach.  
Curious angel. So damn curious.  
Dean sighed and frowned, but made no move to deter him.  
Castiel probably took that as permission. Dean felt his shirt being pulled up, cloth brushing all the way up to his sternum. Fingertips trailed back down, such a light touch.  
Dean’s eyes fell open, and he observed Castiel turned on his elbow, right hand reaching over to explore Dean’s exposed skin. Dean’s gaze stayed on Castiel’s face, however, seeing the minuscule frown between his eyebrows, the ever so slightly parted lips.  
He hung over Dean’s shoulder, blinking rapidly every so often. They were both very tired, he could see it in Castiel, and he felt it himself. So he watched the other man, nonchalantly, as his hand moved over him.  
Castiel spread his palm out flat, pushing it over the flat of Dean’s midriff, below his ribcage and down to his hips. There, Castiel stopped, and with only his spread fingertips, dragged his touch through the line of hair that descended below Dean’s navel.  
The corner of Dean’s mouth flitted into a quick half-grin, because that tickled. But as it went on, massaging the tender skin, Dean started to feel something else; heat low in his belly, a slow pulse of want. He was too tired to think about how wrong that was, so he let it continue.  
Castiel probably knew that he was watching him, he must do. He knew that he was still awake, at least.  
The pressure left Dean for a moment, just as Castiel had touched the waistband of his trousers - oh, that’s where it went. Castiel was undoing the top button.  
Dean’s eyes widened, and he stopped breathing, but he said nothing. Castiel swallowed. Then Dean felt two fingers pushed under the waistband, following the line of hair. Dean gasped, grabbing Castiel’s hand and shoving it back to him.  
“Don’t touch me there, Cas.”  
With a final glare at the helpless angel, Dean lay back down on the dock on his side, and wrenched his shirt back down, awkwardly doing up his button while lying on his own arm.  
Then he tried to go to sleep, huddled away, a hand under his head. Silence descended, and Dean thought no more about the angel that slept behind him.  
~  
It must have been about five in the morning when Dean woke up. The night was still warm, perhaps a bit cooler than before. He wasn’t cold, though.  
He wasn’t cold, because Castiel’s arms were around him. They faced each other, turned together in the middle of the dock. Dean’s hand was on Castiel’s hip, the other under Castiel’s arm as it reached over to hold gently to Dean’s shoulder. Castiel’s top arm was draped over Dean’s other shoulder, holding him. Their legs were tangled together.  
Dean should have pulled away, at least untangled their limbs. But he didn’t.  
He kept his breathing slow and quiet, eyes over the sleeping man in front of him. Their faces were close, so close he could feel Castiel’s sleeping breath on his cheek. His breath smelled clear and sweet, despite the ale they’d drunk together, despite the earthy water they’d been swimming in hours before. His skin, Dean realised, still carried that aura of beauty, undeniably the best scent that Dean had ever had the pleasure of inhaling.  
Castiel was asleep, he’d never know. Dean allowed the scent to fill him up, eyes blinking slowly, half-closed as he enjoyed this.  
The fallen angel looked so innocent, especially in sleep. Empty of any of the horrors that the rest of the world had to suffer with. Dean’s mouth pulled into a gentle smile, not even of his own accord. Castiel made him smile, that was the fact of it.  
Dean slipped his hand off Castiel’s hip, grazing the blue shirt slightly as he reached to touch Castiel’s chin. Castiel sighed, breath warm on Dean’s fingers. Dean flicked his tongue over his own lips, smile quivering again when another breath came cooler, tingling.  
He could kiss him, Dean thought. He could kiss him, and Castiel would never know.  
Inexplicably, a rush of excitement fell through Dean, and he blinked it away, frantically. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t.  
He could.  
Carefully, he nudged his head forward, eyes glancing to Castiel’s closed lids, checking he was still asleep. Dean’s lips parted involuntary, and Jesus, a thrill coursed up and down him like the lightning that had struck Castiel. Why did this make him pulse like that? It was like he had wings of his own, trapped inside him, nudging him all over his skin.  
They were so close now. Dean thumbed Castiel’s stubble, tip dragging over Castiel’s chapped lips. They were softer than they looked. Kissable, certainly.  
Dean closed his eyes, almost ready to move the last half-inch, to press their mouths together. He wanted this, for whatever reason. It was insane, and wrong, but right now, this was what he craved.  
“Dean?”  
Dean gasped, eyes open wide - but he didn’t pull away. His name brushed on his lips, but they didn’t quite touch. Dean swallowed, fearing that Castiel knew what he had been meaning to do.  
Castiel blue eyes flicked between each of Dean’s, searching him.  
He didn’t know, thank God, he didn’t know.  
Then Castiel broke eye contact with Dean, focusing on something just beyond his head on the dock.  
The curious expression on Castiel’s face split into one of terror.  
“Cas?” Dean whispered, a note of reflected fear in his voice.  
“Don’t move, Dean,” Castiel instructed.  
“What is it?” Dean couldn’t keep the question down; his wave of contentment had snapped away in a second.  
“Keep your eyes fixed on me; we’re going to stand up, very very slowly.”  
“Cas, what’s going on?”  
“Do as I say, Dean.”  
Dean nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes compliantly locked onto Castiel’s. Castiel tugged on his arm, pulling him and guiding him up to sitting, their faces very close still. They moved apart once they got to kneeling, but Castiel pulled Dean closer to him with a sudden draw of his upper arm. Dean followed the movement, heart thudding.  
Castiel’s eyes were still wide, occasionally glancing about them, always bouncing back to Dean to guide them to their feet together. Dean turned his bare foot over the flat of the jetty, and on Castiel’s mark, standing himself up.  
They stood less than an arm’s length from each other, Dean desperately searching Castiel’s eyes for a clue as to what he was meant to be afraid of. Castiel was shocked enough that his face screamed his feeling for him, without him needing a word.  
“Look around slowly, Dean. Don’t make any sudden movements. We’re not alone.”  
Dean took a breath and held it, dropping his eyes to Castiel shoulders before dragging them off and turning to look around.  
Everywhere. They were everywhere.  
They lived in the moonlight, moving and singing and _dancing_ , all of them silver and shimmering like the ripples in the pool.  
Ghosts.  
Every one of them was half-invisible, as detailed as a real person would be, but it was like the light didn’t hit them right - they glowed from the inside, not only their skin, but their clothes too. There were maybe fifty of them, silent and gliding over the ground. There were children, holding hands and dancing in a circle beside Dean and Castiel’s horses. Old men and women sat upon the grass and moved as if having a pleasant conversation; friends and lovers and companions, walking together, sitting, laughing.  
Dean felt Castiel’s hand tight on his wrist, for comfort, support - for him or for Castiel, he didn’t care; it was helping. His insides were turned cold and sour by his terror, and he held back a deep shiver.  
Castiel stepped forward and bent down, slowly, fetching something from the ground. Sabbath. Dean’s sword. He handed it to Dean, who drew it, careful to keep it silent.  
He held it out in front of him, pointing down the line of his pier, at a fat man who stood in company of a slim woman, arguing silently.  
“I’ll protect you,” Dean and Castiel both said at once. Castiel slid his hand from Dean’s wrist, tangling their fingers together and squeezing. Dean swallowed hard, eyes still on the point of his blade.  
There was no escape, there were too many. Their horses slept on, heads down. They had to reach them, wake them up. They had to get out of here as soon as possible.  
Dean tugged ahead, not stopping to put his boots on. Castiel followed by his hand, palms pressed tight together. Dean led with his sword, hesitantly nudging it in the fat man’s direction. The ghosts didn’t seem to be able to see them, or react, but the consternation Dean felt was blinding in their presence. They shouldn’t be here, and therefore, neither should Dean.  
Dean tested, poked his sword into the man’s side. It was like pushing a sword through an updraft of steam in a sauna, the air was a lighter or heavier, he couldn’t tell - but it felt different, like a different texture. Completely silent, the man kept on shouting at the woman before him, hands raised to the sides of his head, thrusting them angrily toward her, back and forth. She shouted over him, a pointed hand of fingers at his chest.  
Dean couldn’t let his eyes linger, fearing that they might somehow infect his mind. He stepped over the corner of the dock, leaping into the shallows of the water beside a formation of rocks. Castiel followed, never letting their hands drop. Dean waded slowly, water clinging around his legs. There were no ghosts in the water, so they kept to it until they reached the grassy side, stepping onto the sand.  
They couldn’t reach the horses without pushing through a crowd of silver people, or slipping through a ring of dancing children. At a flashed glance from Castiel, Dean dropped his hand and sheathed his sword, slipping the scabbard under his belt, not bothering to tie it properly. He took a deep breath, then made to duck between the children’s raised arms, successfully stepping into the middle of the circle, children all around him. They were aged between maybe five and twelve, some tall, some small, all of them skinny - all of them wearing peasant’s clothing, the kind they wore in Zamreer’s lower town.  
Castiel joined him, slipping under the arch of hands between a tall boy and a strong-looking young girl.  
“Ladies first,” Castiel whispered, with a shaky smile. He gestured to the circle, toward the other side, where their horses slept on. Dean tried to return his smile but only got as far as a wobbling lip. He let out a sharp breath and made to duck under the next round of raised hands.  
As he ducked, a girl about two thirds of his height, silver and giggling soundlessly, skipped around in the ring of the circle, falling right into Dean’s side. Dean turned around to face Castiel, spinning along with the girl, moving his legs like she moved hers, skipping sideways with his hands joined to the children beside him.  
Her face was lost inside Dean’s body, but the shimmer of her arms and legs was around Dean’s own, as his footing was not exact against hers. His face laughed his hers did, eyes closed in joy. It was not his own laugh, but hers, young and girlish.  
“Dean!” Castiel shouted, too scared to keep his voice low. The horses raised their heads, blinking in the moonlight and the light of these other creatures that surrounded them. They seemed not to panic, only look at them curiously.  
“Dean, can you hear me, please!” Castiel shouted, but neither the ghosts nor Dean responded. He watched as Dean spun in the circle, around and around, legs kicking in some unknown dance. They didn’t tire, they didn’t stop.  
Castiel shook his head and took a deep breath, then leapt forward and shoved his entire weight into Dean, toppling him out of the circle as it rounded near the horses. Lucifer snorted, chewing his bit.  
Castiel covered Dean’s body on the ground, shaking him into reality. “Dean, can you hear me?”  
“Got it, got it! I’m here.” Dean growled, voice wavering. “Cas, we gotta get out of here.”  
Castiel rolled off Dean, pulling him up to his feet. Dean lurched for Chevy’s reins; Castiel went for Lucifer’s. They climbed up, taking a frozen second to see all the silver people having taken over their secret place, made it completely their own. Dean shook his head roughly, kicking Chevy to a stumbling gallop, navigating a few other half-empty people before making it to the border of trees.  
Once they were through, Castiel bringing up the rear, the forest was empty of ghosts, dark and leafy as it always was. Dean spurred Chevy on through the trees, hardly seeing where they were going. The moonlight made a patchy path, and they were unevenly footed, Chevy occasionally stuttering in her usually-sure step.  
They ran until Dean figured they’d put enough distance between them and the ghost people - he pulled Chevy to a stop, in a clearing with blue moonlight across the floor, odd shapes where tree roots twisted in the ground. Dean fell off his horse and leant forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Castiel sat down beside him, sinking to the ground with his back to a tree.  
“What was that, Cas?” Dean spat out, knees trembling. “What the _hell_ was that?”  
“Ghosts, spirits, I don’t know. Lost souls, all of them...” Castiel took a breath, hands clenched in his lap. “Dead people.”  
“It’s just stories, Cas. People say these forests are haunted, but they’re not - they’re _not_.”  
“Maybe they are, Dean.” Castiel reasoned, swallowing. “Sometimes stories can come true.”  
Dean sat down beside Castiel on a lumpy tree root, head deep in his clammy hands. “Not these stories, it’s not real. There’s no ghosts, there’s no dragons, there’s no unicorns. These things don’t exist.”  
“You can’t believe in these things, yet you believe in God? Something’s existence, for which you have as little proof of as ghosts - which tonight, you have _seen proof_.”  
“Seeing’s not believing, Cas!” Dean yelled, hands clutched over his eyes. “I can’t―”  
“It’s real, Dean. I don’t know what they were doing there, but they shouldn’t be there.”  
“Oh God,” Dean muttered, scrubbing his hands up and down his face.  
“We can only pray that they find where they’re meant to be,” Castiel whispered. “They need to pass on, they shouldn’t be here.”  
Dean whimpered, folding into his knees. “I wanna go home, Cas. I need sleep, I need to pee, I need to eat, I need to scream into a pillow. I don’t know about you, but I am getting the fuck out of here.” He stood up and got on his horse, waiting there until Castiel was also on horseback, leading Dean through the dark back toward the castle.  
Dean trembled all the way there.  
The angel led them back to the hole in the wall, beneath the shade of the giant oak tree; Dean couldn’t even see Castiel as he handed him his ring back, hands slapping clumsily together as he passed it to him. If he kept their hands together for longer than was necessary, neither of them minded.  
Dean passed through first again, coming to the set of buildings. The sun was almost up, he realised. He could taste the dawn in the air.  
Castiel led them to the stables, glancing behind every so often to check Dean was still with him. They were both reeling from earlier, that feeling like they’d both had a stiff brush run the wrong way up their backs - that hadn’t gone away yet.  
With shaking hands, Dean unbuckled Chevy’s saddle, letting her settle. He didn’t put everything away, only left it on the floor and went to be next to Castiel. Even Chevy’s company felt useless right now. Castiel only put his equipment away hastily, not bothering to correct it when it fell sideways on its perch. Dean went into Lucifer’s stall and put his hand over Castiel’s, tremors mirroring his own. Castiel let out a quick sigh, turning to slide his hands over Dean’s shoulders, pressing his cheek to Dean’s.  
“Wanna stay in my rooms tonight? I have my own washroom.”  
“So do I,” Castiel breathed against his ear, and Dean huffed a laugh, because for a second it had seemed like a challenge.  
“Let’s go,” Dean whispered back, nose pushed into Castiel’s stubble.  
They went for Dean’s rooms, walking a step apart, but then Castiel came forward to touch their fingertips together, unsurely. Dean gave in. Nobody would see. He took Castiel’s hand firmly in his own, and they went together.  
Before they reached his building, Dean realised there were other people around; monks in white headed for early services, farmers in town to set up their stalls before dawn. Dean kept on saying to himself, if I see one more person, I’ll let go of his hand. One more person.  
He never did.  
Even as they snuck in through the side door to Dean’s building, past the court with the pond and the fountain, up all the stairs, his hand stayed around the angel’s. He didn’t want to let go, not now, not ever.  
Of course, that would all change after he’d slept, he knew that. His conscience would catch up with him, and let him know how wrong it was. But now, it was nothing but a comfort.  
He led Castiel in silence all the way to his room. Down the final corridor, Dean saw the sun rising on the horizon, a glint of orange over the distant hills. The line of light hit Castiel’s silhouette as he turned to look at the window, and his outline was, if anything, radiant.  
Dean worried he had not had enough sleep, because right now, Castiel looked nothing short of beautiful.  
Dean dropped his gaze and turned right, through his door. It led to a flight of stairs, a short one, curling around a fat tower. His room was above this part of the castle - he’d turned down the offer of Captain’s special chambers, because despite the fact that it had a shorter escape route, he really liked the way the sun hit this place in the morning. Nineteen years here was a long enough time, but not quite long enough.  
“It seems you are the one who is the princess, Dean,” Castiel muttered behind him, hand finally slipping from his own now that Dean felt safer in his own place.  
“What’d you mean?” He was slurring slightly from fatigue.  
“You live in a tower, and you met a magical, gross little frog.”  
Dean laughed, pushing the final door open, leading Castiel into a room awash with sunlight. “You may be magical, Cas, but you’re not a frog. Even if you swim like one.”  
“I like frogs,” Castiel replied, his voice distracted as he took in his surroundings. Dean’s room was laid out almost identically to Castiel’s - four-posted bed up against the left wall, wardrobe on the right - washroom on the far right, around a corner. Directly across from the door, was the window. Dean’s window wasn’t like Castiel’s, panoramic, stretching across half the room, but it was warm and full, like the rest of his quarters.  
All the walls here were stone, thick off-white bricks staggered in a generally rectangular shape. It was spacious - more than enough room to live.  
Castiel went to see the view, and Dean disappeared for a moment to relieve himself. He came back to find Castiel still there, shadow across the room as he stared out at the rising sun.  
“This place is very comfortable,” Castiel said, pleased. “You haven’t cleaned for a while,” he added, glancing at the piles of plates and clothes and general outcasts that accumulated when a place was used properly.  
“I’m not big on the whole tidying thing,” Dean admitted.  
“You have no servants,” Castiel supposed, squinting at Dean.  
Dean pressed his lips together and rubbed the back of his neck. “I kind of, might’ve, screwed them all,” he said.  
“Screwed?”  
Dean glanced at the angel. “Had sex with.”  
“Were you such a terrible lover that they never wanted to see you again?” Castiel asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.  
Dean laughed under his breath, dropping his hand and turning to pull his shirt off. “Nah, it’s just... awkward, you know?”  
“I don’t know?”  
“When you share that with someone, so much... passion, all at once, and then you see them again, and - you can’t really have that person changing your gross sheets after, can you?”  
Castiel frowned. “I will take your word for it.”  
Dean moved to the left of the bed, pulling back the covers. He glanced to Castiel, realising what they were about to do. He was about to invite another man into his bed. _Reckless._  
He looked down and away, instead focusing on his trouser buttons, pulling his scabbard from his belt, setting it beside the bed. Castiel hesitated before disappearing into the washroom.  
Dean took a tiny moment to breathe into his hands. This had been one of the crazier nights of his life, and it didn’t even seem to be over yet. Usually, having stayed up this late, he’d just suffer through the day while being tired as hell and nodding off whenever he had no need for paying attention.  
But, some part of him was screaming. Screaming, something incoherent, something about making up to Castiel for sharing his bed, something about wanting to share another night with him, about wanting that closeness that they’d shared down on Limn’mere’s dock tonight. About needing closeness after feeling so alone. And not being alone again.  
Dean pulled his trousers off, the ends of them still damp from when he’d leapt into the pool to avoid a ghost. It seemed like a dream now; some manic, insane dream.  
Just like how manic and insane Dean’s earlier thoughts had been - that incomprehensible desire to kiss another man. To kiss Castiel.  
Maybe it wasn’t such a great leap? Castiel seemed happy with the idea of two men kissing. Even as he thought about it now, Dean felt his lower half tingle, all the way to his toes. He shivered, bundling himself under the covers. He couldn’t think about it.  
But he wanted to think about it.  
He opened his mind, like opening the crack of a door to see a lit room on the other side. He let himself imagine what it would have been like, to kiss Castiel when they hung by their hands from the side of the jetty, bobbing in the water. What his lips might have felt like against Dean’s. Not like a woman’s, nothing Dean had ever felt before. The way he would taste―  
Dean screamed internally, burying his head under the blanket. The pulse in his lower half was wrong, it felt so dirty. He couldn’t let himself enjoy this.  
Castiel came back into the room, wiping damp hands on his shirt. He stood by the foot of the bed, and Dean dare not pull his head from out of the covers. He shut his eyes tight, not letting the slightest bit of filtered sunlight into his mind, worried it would shed more light on the things he vowed to himself not to think about.  
“Dean, may I join you?”  
Dean gasped into his pillow, hips pressed hard into the bed. _Don’t think about it. Don’t think._  
Without looking, he reached over to the right of the bed and tugged the covers back, inviting Castiel in.  
Dean felt the bed depress as Castiel slid in beside him, a still-grubby foot accidentally brushing his own. Dean ground his teeth, forcing any thoughts from his mind.  
“Goodnight, Dean.... Morning, even.”  
“‘Night, Cas.”  
Castiel said nothing more, but Dean listened as his breathing slowed, only snuffling and rearranging himself once, before his breathing evened completely, and he was asleep. Dean swallowed, pulling his face out of the pillow. He leaned up and blinked in the morning sun, eyes heavy with exhaustion - but something overrode that, for now.  
He pulled an arm up to lean on, put it under his head and let his cheek rest on it. He watched Castiel sleep, not letting himself dwell on how peaceful he was, how much calmer Dean felt when Castiel was with him. Slowly, sleep grabbed him and dragged him under.  
He had one final thought, before he could stop himself. Later, he would never remember what it was, but it was there.  
 _I wish you were here every night, Cas._  
~  
“Hey, Winchester! Dean, oh, there you are! We’ve been looking for you, what’re you―”  
Gabriel shook Dean by the ankle, forcing him awake with an irritated turn to look at him, covers riding back.  
“See you got company, sorry to disturb...”  
“Gabe, why’re you in my room,” Dean grumbled, faceplanting his pillow. He turned around under the blanket and sat up, bleary-eyed, on his elbows.  
“First Sunday as Captain, in case you didn’t notice. They’re expecting you in church.”  
Dean groaned and fell back against the pillow with a hand to his head, rubbing his eyes. “Do I have to?”  
“‘fraid so, sucker.”  
“Goddamn,” Dean grunted, rolling to nuzzle his pillow again. He can’t have been asleep more than three hours. “Did they start without me?”  
“Yep, but you’re gonna be in mighty trouble if you don’t show your perky ass there before the end.”  
“Oh, man,” Dean complained, swinging his feet out of bed and touching the cool floor with his toes gingerly.  
“Your girl didn’t sneak out last night? Must’ve been something mind-blowing, huh?”  
Dean started, remembering the second body in his bed today. He swallowed and glanced at the lumpy shape of Castiel under the blanket. He prayed he wouldn’t wake up, because Gabriel would see him. Then there’d be questions.  
“Hey, sunshine - party’s over, Captain’s going out,” Gabriel said, striding to the other side of the bed and patting Castiel on the foot. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”  
Castiel mumbled, and Dean swallowed hard, not brave enough to stand up yet. _Don’t get up, don’t get up._  
“Dean?” Castiel muttered, voice heavy with sleep.  
Shit.  
“Dean, what’s going on―”  
“Castiel?” Gabriel said, stunned.  
“Gabriel? What’s―”  
“Dean, did you screw Castiel last night?” Gabriel asked, mouth agape and tone running with an underlying laugh.  
“No!” Dean spat, feathers ruffled.  
“Castiel, did you screw Dean last night?”  
Castiel sat up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. “Dean and I did not share sexual relations,” Castiel told the other fallen angel, fighting a yawn. “We merely shared a bed.”  
Gabriel huffed a laugh. “There a reason for that, bro?” It wasn’t directed at either of them, but then again, maybe both of them.  
“There were ghosts in the forest, and we were both in need of comfort, I think.” Castiel spoke like his words were the normalest thing. Dean’s mind flickered, and all he heard was nonsense and gibberish and things he’d rather not have admitted out loud.  
“Ghosts?” Gabriel said, disbelief lacing his entire manner. “You were in the forest? You left the castle?”  
Castiel glanced over at Dean, sniffing slightly. “Dean and I like to spend time alone together.”  
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “You do know what this sounds like, right?”  
Castiel looked up at him, and Dean glanced between them frantically, hoping this conversation would end immediately. “What does it sound like to you?”  
“Are you kidding me? You guys are screwing in secret and I wasn’t the first one to know?”  
“Dean and I are not, and have not... we’re not, we don’t touch each other like that. We’re just friends. Dean doesn’t want a man to touch him like that.”  
Gabriel stared down his brother with a blank face.  
Dean decided it was time to chip in. “Nor will we ever.” He stood up and pulled last night’s trousers on. They were still a little damp, seeing as he’d left them crumpled on the floor.  
Gabriel, for whatever reason, looked disappointed. “But you’ll let me know, right?”  
“Know what when?” Dean asked with a frown, pulling a clean shirt on.  
“If you screw.”  
Dean barked a laugh. “Dude, we’re not ever going to screw. Not. Ever.” He pulled his spare pair of boots on roughly, with each of his last words.  
Castiel looked about himself in bed, at a loss for what else he should be looking at. Gabriel reached over the bed to pat him gently on the shoulder. Dean snorted, grabbing his sword and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. He was already halfway down the corridor before Gabriel caught up with him.  
“You really like him, huh?”  
Dean seethed. “Would you please goddamn _quit it_ with the mind-reading. Jesus.”  
“I didn’t read your mind, dumbass. You don’t share a bed with another guy, not having sex, and not drunk out of your mind, if you don’t really like him.” He raised his hands in surrender as Dean glared at him. “Look, I don’t even mean in a, what - romantic, or sexual, or whatever way. I just mean, you gotta be caring about him on some level, right?”  
“Cas and me, we’re not anything more than friends,” Dean forced out.  
“Sure, buddy.” Gabriel looked at him carefully, keeping up with him all the way down the stairs. “But Dean - yeah, _Dean_. Not Captain, not Winchester. Dean, look at me.” Gabriel stopped on the landing, holding Dean back by an arm and waiting until he faced him before he spoke again. “Don’t let a good thing go to waste. If you’re in the moment, go for it.”  
Dean felt like hissing at him. “What kind of sucky advice is that?” He stalked off and headed for the next set of stairs.  
“The kind of advice you get from a friend, Dean. One who actually gives a shit about how you live your life, and doesn’t want you to die sad and alone.”  
“I’m not gonna live past thirty, dumbass.”  
“That’s what they all say. The ones that never find someone worth holding on for.”  
Dean snorted again, taking another corner. “What, and you think Cas is worth that, for me? Seriously, Gabe?”  
“Dean. He’s worth it.” Gabriel stopped Dean again, and held him by the shoulders. He was much shorter, but the intensity of his glare made up for it. “Trust me, he’s worth it.”  
“Whatever,” Dean replied, brushing past the angel and heading for the last staircase before the courtyard with the pond.  
The thing was, Castiel was worth it, and Dean knew it. But he did not want to admit it, not now, not ever.  
~x~  
Sam put his hands to his head, writhing with discontent. “Oh God, please tell me you told her. Told _somebody_. I don’t think I can listen to this story if there’s no payoff.”  
Dean huffed at Sam from the foot of his horse, travelling cloak slung over his shoulder. “Told somebody what, exactly?”  
“How much you love this girl. Jeez, it’s like you’re swimming in this... river of denial.”  
Dean swallowed and watched his feet picking over the damp forest floor. “Gabriel called it ‘Dean-ial’.”  
“You know what, Gabriel is a saint, all right? God, you’re so dumb.”  
“And you’re an ass. Get off my horse, you’ve been up there way too long.”  
“Five more minutes?”  
“No, get off.”  
Sam sighed and slid to the ground, legs aching, but somewhat relieved to be back on solid ground. Dean swung onto Chevy’s back as Sam patted her, still moving forward in some unknown direction.  
Dean’s story was somehow captivating, despite the confusing parts. Why was Dean so hesitant about getting with some girl? Sure, she was the Priestess’ special pet, and all, but it seemed like a bit of an overreaction. Sam still figured Dean was hiding something, and something big.  
He didn’t quite have all the puzzle pieces to put it together. Not yet. Maybe Dean would give him something when he got to the point of the story.  
Yeah, Sam had no clue what the point of the story was. He had no clue why Dean’s falling head-over-heels in love had anything to do with his own kidnap - okay, _rescue_ , whatever.  
“Okay, so... You’re forced to go to church, then what?”  
“Eager, huh? Didn’t think you were really the type to like a love story.”  
“It’s not a love story, it’s a pathetic mess of your life, I’m just really curious how this all straightened up so you’re walking through a muddy forest in late autumn with a complete stranger. And no Castiel.”  
“Yeah, well. That part’s right at the end, I won’t be able to tell you that today.”  
Sam was still conscious that he’d only met Dean only yesterday, and since then his life had been wildly inconsistent. He’d been chased by the Guard - people who he now knew were old ‘friends’ of Dean’s - chased by a killer wolf; then traipsed, seemingly aimlessly, through a deep forest, being told a strange story about a man who fell in love with a woman who fell from Heaven.  
Really, he needed to hear some sort of resolution. But knowing how this story was going, he wasn’t expecting one any time soon. In the meantime, he took another step forward and made to enjoy the ride.  
~x~  
Dean tried his best to sneak in, he always did. Sneaking was one of his specialities. He didn’t like making a scene.  
Of course, the only way into the church’s mid-Sunday-service, was through the main doors at the front. They were closed. He had to knock.  
He paced outside for some time, first. He was in a covered walkway, arches right behind him and a waist-height wall that bordered on a courtyard with a fountain. Much like the one at the bottom of his building, but this one was always drenched in sunlight. The Priestess liked to entertain guests or something here - Dean had never really paid attention.  
Whenever he had thoughts like this, Dean ended up considering how badly suited for the role of Captain he really was. Aside from being a good fighter, he had precious few of the marks of a leader. Maybe this was the one thing Missouri was wrong about, since she seemed to think he was born to lead.  
Dean sighed, clapped his hands behind his back, then punched his open palm a few times in front of him. Then he knocked on the door, gently. No answer for five... four... three... two...  
Dean gritted his teeth and knocked again, louder. The termites in the wood might hear him this time.  
A portly monk cracked open the door, saw Dean’s disgruntled face, and swung the door open to let him in. Dean tried to slip inside without a fuss, but found that the entire back half of the congregation was watching him. He waved self-consciously, side-stepping around the back of the room and into the side alcove on the right. Eyes followed him, even as Rufus’ voice rang out from the front: something about the rewards of Heaven.  
Dean hid in the shadows until he felt like he was not being watched quite so much, then made his way quietly right up to the front of the church, biting the insides of his lips as he slid in beside the High Priestess.  
Everyone was standing, the pews were only at the far sides for silent prayer. The Priestess gave him a quick smile, and Dean felt his stomach turn. He’d seen her other side, how she was when she was alone with Castiel. He couldn’t believe her facade for a second. But he smiled back automatically, then after a second of anger at himself, realised it was probably better she didn’t suspect anything. Play nice.  
Dean stood there and watched Rufus do his thing, arms raised out to embrace the soul of his flock, or whatever. Dean had never been one to take notice during these things. During his teenage years, whilst being herded inside the chapel every week, he had hidden at the back and spent his time imagining various instances in which girls would embrace _his_ soul. If you know what he means.  
Then came the singing. Dean had long since forgotten the words, but mouthed something that vaguely resembled whatever everyone else was doing. Dean kept his eyes on Rufus up top, seeing as the rest of the people were behind him. Singing while not knowing the tune either, was easier in a crowd of mostly flat-voiced males. Dean sang one note and held it, playing games with himself to see how long he could hold a single note before needing to take a breath.  
It was in this manner, that Dean wondered how good a singer he could actually be, if he never sang anything except that one note. He began to vary the note, trying to keep it in accordance with whatever everyone else was singing. How did they all know this song? Dean didn’t even understand the words.  
Dean’s song came to an end approximately one second after everyone else’s. Again, he felt a great many pairs of eyes on his back, seeing as his note had been significantly higher-pitched than he’d meant it to be. He swallowed and sank his head in embarrassment. The Priestess looked up at him, smirking. Dean blinked and tried not to catch her eye.  
“All right, let us have a moment of silence - thank our Lord for all he has given us! Praise Him!” Rufus bellowed, voice ringing in the walls of the church.  
Dean heard a rustle of material as the whole church collectively placed their hands together and bowed their heads. Dean followed suit, hating that he couldn’t see anyone to copy without having to turn around.  
It was a good number of seconds before Dean realised that this time wasn’t meant to be used to listen to his own heartbeat, nor wonder how long this was going to take. He took a second more to compose a coherent thought, then began:  
 _Hey there, God. Well, I guess it’s a sign of the times that you’ve dragged me in here. I’d thank you for being so up-front about it, but frankly I’d rather be sleeping. Don’t judge me for that, oh almighty Lord. Please. That’d be swell. Um.  
Okay, I’m gonna ask for guidance, or advice, or... whatever it is I’m allowed to pray for. A sign, maybe.  
About Cas.  
Because I kinda feel like... I dunno. It’s getting weird. But, like, good weird. But still really friggin’ weird.  
I mean, am I sinning? ‘cause it feels like a sin. But you keep kinda nudging me, or him, or―_  
“We’ll leave it there, folks. I’ll come meet y’all at the door, we got some sharing and caring to do,” Rufus determined, pointing at the two doors at the other end of the church, then stepping off his tiny platform and making his way through the crowd, shaking hands and patting people on the shoulder as he went, kind words exchanged.  
 _I guess we’ll talk later, God. I’m outta here._  
Dean made for the exit, but was stopped by a soft touch on the side of his arm. “Not so fast, Captain,” the Priestess said, her voice as easy as her touch. Dean felt very uncomfortable.  
She had hurt Cas, and Dean hated her for that like he hated Raphael for hurting Chevy. But at least Raphael wasn’t keeping Chevy prisoner. Realising he was grinding his teeth, Dean tried to loosen his jaw as he looked at the petite smiling woman before him.  
“I hear you had a late night last night, your Guardsman tells me. Gabriel, one of the angels. He’s a sweet little man, isn’t he?” Her eyes scrunched happily as she talked about Gabriel, and Dean wanted to punch her in the face. It was irrational, he tried to tell himself. Except it wasn’t.  
“Captain,” the Priestess continued, her tone darkening but still friendly. The congress filed out of the church, and Dean and the Priestess were slowly being left alone. “I understand you and your girl must’ve found true love, but I’ve heard tell that your Captaining duties aren’t quite coming first.”  
Dean glanced away, swallowing and licking his lips. Priestess Masters interrupted whatever thought he’d had: “I must warn you; I know you’re new to leadership, but your competition between yourself and Raphael was extremely evenly matched. You were picked above him by myself, not only because our now Father Turner recommended you so highly - but also out of the goodness of my heart, knowing you were truly ready to serve this city in such a capacity.”  
Dean shuffled his feet and looked at the stone floor beneath them.  
“I trust you’ll put your leadership to good use, Captain. I reiterate: enjoy your girl’s company, but don’t let it supersede your duties. I expect to see you in every Sunday church session, every congregation, and every ceremony. You will not be late, and you will not hide. A leader can never hide.”  
“I understand, your Grace.” Dean’s mouth suddenly tasted sour; he realised he sounded like Castiel did when he was so compliant to this woman’s wishes. Castiel said she had power, what if this was it? Dean tried not to look her directly in the eye.  
“I’m going to be away for the rest of today,” she continued, letting her hand fall to clasp the other. “I have business in Evacéra, signing more peace treaties,” she said with an upward roll of her eyes and a flick of her hand. If Dean didn’t strongly dislike this woman, he’d really find the gesture quite attractive.  
“I just thought you should know. But you’re dismissed now, Captain,” she said, touching Dean’s shoulder. Her smile was still there, still as kind as ever. Dean squinted at it. “Tell your girl I said hello.”  
“Yes, your Grace. Thank you.” Dean nodded his head then bent to kiss her ring. There it was again - Castiel’s perfume. It was definitely there, it wasn’t a mistake. Unless it was the exact same batch made by Cassie, it was from the very same bottle.  
Dean couldn’t help but look her in the eye as he departed, keeping his face to her most of the way toward the church doors out of common respect, then turning away, leaving sharpish out into the mid-morning sunlight.  
~  
Dean had no plans for today, outside of going back to bed. But before that, he required nourishment. He took a detour towards Missouri’s kitchen.  
“I need food, now.” He placed each hand on Missouri’s shoulders, looking her directly in the eye. “Last time I ate was dinner yesterday. That’s eighteen hours. I am going to die.”  
“So says you,” Missouri countered, eyes half-blinking in very minimal reaction. “I made you something,” she added, turning out of Dean’s grip and heading across the tiles and to the round table in the corner of the kitchen.  
Dean rubbed his hands gleefully and followed her, an overjoyed grin on his face.  
“I hear you braved church today,” Missouri called over her shoulder, Dean a step behind her heavy sway of wide hips.  
“Who told you? Or did you mind-read me, again?”  
“A little birdie named Cupid, if you must know,” Missouri informed him, reaching the table and handing Dean a round pasty looking thing with a fork-scraped dimple in the top. Dean didn’t bother sniffing it before he took a bite, and his eyes rolled back in his head in violent reaction to its sheer deliciousness.  
“Is this made of awesome, or what?” Dean mumbled, humming to himself as he swallowed. His eyes snapped open. “Wait, you know Cupid?”  
“I know everyone, honey. I didn’t know Castiel, though, until you introduced us.”  
Dean bumped his eyebrows in consideration at this, then took another bite. Quite possibly this was meat, or it might have been boiled vegetables - despite Dean’s lifelong aversion to food grown on plants, he couldn’t bring himself to care right now.  
“So who told Cupid?” Dean muttered, licking flaky pastry from his lips.  
“I did,” Castiel said, from behind Dean.  
Dean made that noise again, the one that Castiel loved to make him make. Castiel laughed with a closed mouth, and Dean glared at him, biting his pasty thing again and chewing it aggressively.  
“And then Cupid told me I could meet you here, because Gabriel told him that you had left the church.”  
“Are you guys all stalking me now, or...?”  
“You presume too much, sweetie,” Missouri sighed at him. Dean scowled, counting this as the third time he’d been told that in a week.  
Dean crammed the last of his meal into his mouth, sitting beside Castiel when he sat at the table. Through full cheeks, he mumbled, “So how come you don’t go to church, Cas?”  
“Large crowds are the Priestess’ equivalent of leaving the castle. Even this kitchen is out of bounds.”  
It was hardly a crowd, Dean thought, taking a look at the people rushing around, preparing food for the Lords’ and Ladies’ lunches. But perhaps busyness induced the need to use angel mojo. Maybe that was why he wasn’t allowed to leave.  
“Priestess is outta town today,” Dean recalled, leaning forward to put an elbow on the table, cheek resting on his hand. “Maybe a good a time as any to let loose on the castle, Cas.”  
Castiel looked down at his lap. “I was going to suggest that we use to time to visit Limn’mere, but I fear we remain with our ghost problem.”  
Missouri pulled up the third chair and sat opposite the two of them with her hands clasped in a ball on the table. “Tell me about that, give me your hands,” she said, beckoning to both men, waiting until both of them placed their palms in hers before closing her eyes.  
“Oh, my...”  
“They are very out of place,” Castiel said, eyes also closed, like he could see what Missouri was looking at. Dean sat and watched the two of them do their creepy mind-mojo, mouth in a relaxed ‘o’.  
Missouri hummed in agreement with Castiel, then dropped their hands. “Wait here,” she said distractedly. She wandered off through a line of steam, and Dean sucked on the back of his lips.  
“Wonder if there’s any more food,” he said out loud.  
“Cupid brought me a basket of fruit. I left you most of it.”  
“Nice thought, but you can take it. Don’t eat anything that might’ve been green once.”  
“All animals you eat were once nothing but a thought in God’s mind and years’ worth of grass.”  
Dean was very tempted to stick his tongue out at Castiel, but instead settled with glancing at him out of the side of his eye with some intended menace.  
Missouri came back with Pamela in tow, and Dean stood up to let one of them sit down. Pamela smirked at him and took his seat. Dean leant on the wall behind Castiel, arms crossed. “Any suggestions? You’re not gonna have to come down there and work some creepy voodoo psychic stuff, are you?”  
Pamela shrugged and tilted her head. “Nothing quite like that, grumpy, but sure, I can take a look, get some readings. Undead spirits are my speciality. Stuff that needs crossing over? Got that down.”  
Dean pushed away from the wall but didn’t uncross his arms. Castiel had also sat up somewhat straighter, and if Dean was right, he thought he knew why.  
“Uh, is there - any way you could do it without actually going there?”  
Castiel turned to look at Dean, and catching his eye, Dean knew his suspicion had been correct. Castiel stood up and hung at his side, shoulder-to-shoulder.  
“Dean and I would rather you didn’t―”  
“―what I mean is―”  
“―we share a lot of secrets there,” Castiel interrupted.  
“No we don’t, it’s not like―”  
“―Dean means to say that the place is intimate, for us―”  
“Cas, please stop talking,” Dean insisted, a closed fist wavering gently between their touching shoulders. “We would just rather keep it private, you know?”  
“Aww, isn’t that sweet,” Pamela said, glancing to Missouri and back to the boys, hands coming to clasp behind her head as she leaned back in the chair. “It’s their special secret place.” She pursed her lips like an exaggerated kiss, perhaps trying to hide a smile.  
“But, you know, if the need arises,” Dean added, hand open toward Pamela, “like, if we see the ghosts again, or...” Dean licked his lips. “We’ll ask you.”  
Pamela gave an upward nod, the corners of her blind eyes wrinkled in amusement. “Missouri,” she said, turning to her co-psychic-cook. “You had something for these here boys in that basket of yours, didn’t you?”  
Missouri sighed and stood up, pulling her chair back against the wall. “Good thing Garth had a mind to bring that poor basket back, else it’d still be sitting out by the drawbridge,” she tutted, shaking her head. Dean glanced at Castiel with a draw back of his lips that said ‘whoops’.  
Missouri placed the full basket on the table, its wicker lid almost bulging from how stuffed it was. “Castiel, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone else who might help you with your ghosts out there?” It sounded like a hint: Missouri knew full well who Castiel was meant to be thinking of, but wanted Castiel to work it out himself.  
His eyebrows knitted together and he stared hard at the table. “Perhaps...”  
“His name starts with ‘D’, honey.”  
Castiel raised his head and looked Missouri straight in the eye. “Duh-ee-arth?”  
Or, at least, that’s what it sounded like to Dean. He would frown in confusion, but was too busy eyeing the basket of food. “Are we going on a picnic?” he asked, not even caring that he practically had psychics controlling his life right now. The food was good, and free, so he didn’t feel the slightest bit concerned.  
“Not yet, sweetie,” Missouri said gently, and Dean realised he was being talked to like a child. He cleared his throat and tried his best to remember that he was twenty-six years old and in charge of a small army.  
“We have to go to the library, first,” Castiel said, picking up the basket and promptly dropping it back to the table. “This is very heavy.”  
“Duh-ee-arth likes his food heavy, what can I say?” Missouri replied with a full-body shrug. “Dean, help your angel.”  
“He - he’s a fallen angel. Calling him an angel is derrogratry,” Dean said, taking the basket.  
“Derogatory,” Castiel corrected him.  
“Just testing,” Missouri shot back with a wink. Dean rolled his eyes and made for the exit. “Hold on a minute, Captain, I want to talk to you alone,” she called after him.  
Dean glanced to Pamela, who had disappeared into a waft of smoke yelling at that dude named Andy. He set the basket down at the side of the room, Castiel waiting next to it like a patient dog. Dean went to see what Missouri wanted, just him. Should he be concerned?  
“Come here, sweetie,” Missouri said, arm held out to him to pull him into a half-hug, turned away from Castiel and the kitchen. “Can I give you some advice?” she asked in her airy voice, the one that told him she was going to give him advice no matter what he said to her.  
“Go ahead, it’s what people are doing nowadays.”  
“When it comes down to it, take that plunge, won’t you? That leap of faith. It’s a big one, but it’s the best one.”  
“Why is all the advice I get something along those lines?” Dean asked with a frown at nothing in particular, examining the blocks of the wall. “People keep telling me stuff like ‘go for it’ and ‘have faith’!”  
“Because, it seems to take you ten goes before it gets into that thick skull of yours,” Missouri said fondly through gritted teeth, tapping Dean hard on the forehead.  
“It would help if it wasn’t all cryptic, man. Why does everything have to be in code?”  
“You want it straight, hon?” Dean looked unsurely at her, then nodded. “It means, if you want to kiss him, you go right ahead, and you kiss the living daylights out of him. You got that?”  
Dean stared at her in shock. She pulled her lips into a firm line and shoved him toward the door with a whack on his ass. “Get!”  
Dean let out a sharp breath, striding past Castiel and grabbing the basket as he passed. “You gotta show me where the library is, dude. I’d end up stuck in a latrine somewhere, I swear.”  
~  
The library, Dean found, was not as hard to locate as he’d imagined. In his mind’s eye had been a twist of corridors and deep, dark caverns that got gradually mustier and darker and damper as the path wore its way down below the ground. Similar to the path to the garret, but in reverse.  
Instead, Castiel’s route took them into what Dean imagined the path to Heaven might be like, if it were constructed from corridors and stairs.  
Everything was painted a light, pale blue, with white edging - and then gold, highlighting that. It was a far cry from the rest of the castle’s dark-grey-and-off-white-with-red, but they pushed open a single wooden door, went through one corridor, and there it all was; only one staircase up.  
They went through a set of double-panelled arched doors, not painted, unlike the corridor - and emerged into the most expansive room Dean had ever seen, aside from the ballroom or the chapel. An entire secret floor full of books.  
When Dean says full of books, he hadn’t quite known what the possibilities of a library could have been before this moment. Full of books, seriously meant _full of books_.  
They were all so neatly stacked, Dean didn’t even know how to differentiate from one book and the next. Not at first.  
There were four walls, but they didn’t end to Dean’s left and right; they went beyond the corners of his vision, cut around the staircase they’d just climbed. It was like the staircase was a portal into a secret world.  
“This... is where you spent the last six years?”  
Castiel looked back at Dean’s stunned face, and proudly replied, “Yes.”  
“You read everything?”  
“I found the books containing nothing but lists of dates and numbers harder to digest,” he replied, spinning slowly on the spot. He seemed to be trying to take in the sight before him as if seeing it from Dean’s perspective; new and daunting, not the familiar place of home that he’d always known it as.  
Dean put the picnic basket down on the floor and tried not to feel quite so small. All of the shelves were angled away from them, all in perfect lines in a wheel from the middle where the staircase was. All of them reached to the ceiling, which was at least three men higher than Dean’s own head. There must be thousands upon thousands of books here, all of them thicker than one of Dean’s fingers, almost as tall as his forearm. He could measure, because there were stacks of unshelved books around the staircase like armour, seemingly without a home.  
“Wow,” Dean breathed, blinking slowly. “And no stories?”  
“No fictional ones.”  
“How did you not go insane? Like, out of your goddamn _mind_ insane?” Dean couldn’t even comprehend being alone, day after day, with nothing new in his life other than an endless expanse of _knowledge_. Where was the _experience?_  
“Duh-ee-arth was an irreplaceable companion within my time here. Eventually I learned to test boundaries, learned how to speak to other people, choose my friends. My fallen angel brothers, Anael, Gabriel, Balthazar - they would visit me, once they realised where I was. We became very close; I would trust them with anything.”  
“You didn’t tell them you were leaving the castle,” Dean noted, glancing at Castiel as they stood pointlessly in the library entranceway.  
“You didn’t want anyone to know.”  
Dean blinked. “You said you didn’t think promises were made unless they said ‘I promise’.”  
“Somehow it felt important.”  
Dean looked down at the flecked marble floor, nodding. “There are some things I don’t think the rest of the world would cope with very well.”  
Castiel muttered something, voice so low Dean almost didn’t hear, and he was half certain he wasn’t meant to - but it sounded very much like “Men don’t kiss.”  
Dean ignored the statement and picked up the basket. “Where’s this Dee-arth guy, then? We got a ghost problem to sort, remember?”  
“His name is d’Eath,” Castiel said, enunciating. “He’s―” he broke off and glanced sideways then back to Dean. “A fallen angel.”  
“All right?”  
Castiel swallowed nervously, fingertips tapping each other. Then he turned and made his way around the wide column of stacked books, and Dean followed.  
“Castiel!” greeted a sourceless voice, deep and rich.  
As Dean reached the other side, he attached a face to the voice: pale, skeletal, but not wispy; somehow very solid and smooth. If a person could be a liquid, this man was fine wine.  
His thin hair was brushed back over his strangely-shaped head, eyes deeply sunken into their sockets, cheekbones more pronounced than on anyone else Dean had ever seen. Wrinkles covered his face evenly, his forehead rippled with lines as he smiled at the approaching Castiel.  
They took hands and rather than shaking, d’Eath covered Castiel’s hand with his own second hand, and they just held still and silent for a few seconds, absorbing their angel energy, or whatever it was angels did when they met each other.  
The librarian paid Dean no attention until he had finished exchanging intense eye contact with Castiel, during which time, Dean set down the picnic basket on an empty desk, and leant against it, perching his ass on its edge.  
d’Eath let out a slow breath through his nose, then dropped Castiel’s hands. He turned his gaze on Dean, and Dean automatically removed his backside from the man’s desk. “Sorry,” he said.  
“You’re quite forgiven,” d’Eath replied, tone very cheerful. “But only if you’ve brought me something delicious. I’d been meaning to eat today.”  
“Uh, y- yeah, we got some stuff. Missouri sent―”  
“Ahh, Missouri,” d’Eath said gently, sighing on the name. “How is she?” He picked across to the basket and lifted the lid, wriggling his fingers excitedly at the sight of its contents.  
“She’s good, I guess you know her too, then.”  
“Of course, Dean. Everyone knows Missouri,” d’Eath said. He withdrew a thick slice of bread and a hovering spoonful of olives, walking away with a trail of floating food in his wake, which hurried through the air to catch up with him. Cheese, berries, nuts, some fruit spread, half a chicken.  
“Another mind-reader?” Dean whined, looking miserably over at Castiel, who had picked up a book and was turning the pages every second or so.  
“Yes. Every _angel_ ,” Castiel said, looking pointedly at d’Eath rather than Dean as he spoke, “has a significant amount of mind-exploring power. Most of the ones in your Guard, however, are not as tuned into it as myself or d’Eath are.”  
“Anna can tell when I’m lying,” Dean added glumly, sinking back against the edge of the desk. d’Eath said nothing, not even looking up from his newly-conjured table, where he had spread some sort of red-and-white checkered cloth, and ate off a plate made of something whiter and shinier than Dean had ever seen a plate made of.  
Dean sighed and helped himself to his second meal in half an hour. This one was just as delicious as the first. Castiel eventually stopped reading and went over to pick at something, at first nibbling on some speared cheese and olives, before finding he did actually have an appetite, and pulling out handfuls of food and eating them while sitting on the floor next to the desk.  
“Castiel tells me you have a problem that you wish to discuss with me,” d’Eath reminded Dean, and Dean felt the food he’d just swallowed fall down to his stomach twice as fast as he’d have liked.  
“Yeah. Um. Cas and I, we have this little place out in the forest, we were out there last night...”  
“Oh, so that’s where you’ve been running off to all this time, Castiel. Exploring the world, are we?” d’Eath sounded quite proud of him. He almost acted fatherly toward Castiel, and Dean was as equally perplexed by this as he was pleased that Castiel had some family.  
“Dean and I have spent a lot of time together this week.”  
Dean’s jaw actually dropped when he realised he’d only known Castiel one week. “Holy crap, this’s been the best week of my life,” he said in a rush, before he could stop himself.  
Castiel looked up at him from the floor, eyes shining. “Me too.”  
“Yeah, well,” Dean said, gruffly, “you never saw the outside of this room much, anything’s gotta be better than this.”  
“You forget that Castiel chooses his own friends, Dean.” d’Eath looked up from his plate, setting down a silver fork. “He would not have chosen to affiliate with you if he hadn’t thought it worthwhile.”  
Dean tried very hard not to blush, avoiding Castiel’s gaze. His eyes moved of their own accord, though, and a second later he was staring across the space between them, seeing Castiel’s pleased smile, one that mostly lived in his eyes, confirming everything d’Eath said.  
Dean licked his lips. “Not for nothin’, but that’s real nice to know.”  
“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel said, quietly.  
“Right!” d’Eath said, standing up with a jolt, now that he had finished his small meal. The table and chair vanished. Dean swallowed a mouthful of food and brushed his thighs down, knocking a flurry of crumbs to the floor. His thighs felt more muscular than usual, and looking down, he realised he’d put on the ‘quiet’ boots this morning, in absence of his usual ones. He’d left them down in Limn’mere last night.  
“Limn’mere?” d’Eath asked, tilting his head. “Interesting name.”  
“Hey, I didn’t say anything - oh - oh, mind-reader, right,” Dean said with a sigh. He glanced at d’Eath and in that second, had a hundred thoughts pour forward, all of the worst that he’d rather d’Eath not know. Why must his mind betray him like that?  
He realised with a shock of dismay that his foremost thought, was how much he would have liked to have kissed Castiel that time they lay together on the dock, while Castiel slept peacefully; how Castiel would have been awoken by the touch on his lips, how Dean wanted them to have begun to kiss passionately, rolling across the jetty, hands in Castiel’s hair, with the other man’s hands in his own hair―  
Dean gasped and forced the thought down, hands clenched on his trousers.  
“Very interesting,” d’Eath murmured, head still tilted at Dean. Castiel looked curiously between the two of them, but made no move to interrupt their internal conversation. Well, not so much conversation, as Dean’s unilateral surrender of private information.  
Dean felt violated, but knew it was his own fault.  
“Castiel, you give me your account of the problem. I think Dean feels a little out of sorts right now.”  
Castiel gave a wary glance to Dean, who gave a weakly reassuring smile back. Castiel slowly turned his eyes back to the other fallen angel. “When we woke up last night, close to dawn, the pool was surrounded by spirits, ghouls, ghosts, wraiths - I don’t know. They were, um, silver. Translucent, glowing brightly.” Castiel looked over at Dean again. “They were able to possess Dean when he stepped inside one of them by accident.”  
“I was giggling like a kid,” Dean said quietly, throat trembling on his words. The fear came back to him as he imagined it, the sickening lurch as he felt himself ripped into two; the screaming, terrified Dean on the inside, and the outside, laughing, skipping young girl. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop skipping; all he had left of himself were his thoughts; able to hear Castiel crying out for him but not able to respond.  
Dean shivered violently, almost slipping down the side of the desk. d’Eath stared at him, calculating his response and his memories.  
“Whilst you were apart from them, did they see you?”  
Dean shook his head. “I stuck my sword in this big guy, he didn’t even notice. Just kept yelling at this other chick.”  
d’Eath glanced away, suddenly agitated. “How many people were there, roughly?”  
Dean flicked his eyes to Castiel’s, shaking his head. “Maybe forty, fifty?”  
“You’re _sure?_ ” d’Eath demanded, eyes piercing Dean right to the back of his spine and rattling along his bones.  
“Yeah. There were kids and adults, old people. They were all kinda poor, I guess. Thin, like they haven’t really eaten much. Except that really fat guy.”  
d’Eath let out a tense breath through his nose. “Castiel, I think you found it.”  
Castiel hesitated before shaking his head. “N-no, that’s not possible, that’s...”  
“Everything fits, I feel it.” His voice was somehow deeper, more intense.  
Dean looked between them, confused. “What fits, what’ve you found?”  
d’Eath looked sharply at Castiel, then nodded to him, then nudged his head toward Dean.  
Castiel dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he stood up, and wandered over to the pile of books he had been sitting near earlier, picking up the same book, perched on a wooden beam that curved around to a second half-level at his waist height. He didn’t open the book, only held it with both hands in his lap.  
“Dean, I - I lied to you. Just now, before. It felt very bad, I don’t think I’ll do it again.”  
Dean shook his head. “Lie about what? What did you tell me?”  
“d’Eath is not an angel.”  
Dean kept his eyes on the two of them as he tilted his head, somewhere between questioning and disbelief. “All right, then what is he?”  
“d’Eath... is Death.” Castiel looked Dean straight in the eye, and it was eerie how much Dean believed him. Even though it was crazy. And Dean’s brain rejected it, and asked questions.  
“Like... the Grim Reaper? Will collect your soul when you die, horse and scythe, that kind of Death? Capital-D, Death?”  
“Yes, Dean,” Death said cheerfully. “That kind of Death.”  
“Okay, this is probably a stupid question, like the time I asked why the Devil was a horse - but why is Death in Zamreer, working in a _library?_ ”  
Castiel tapped the side of his book with a finger. “You remember that I almost let slip something, about Priestess Masters’ power?”  
“You said she could control creatures - what kind of creatures did you mean?”  
“Death,” Castiel said, “is far from a creature, beyond anything living, beyond understanding. But the Priestess, she has him trapped - not only like us angels, inside a human body, but also inside the citadel walls. He is truly a prisoner, Dean. Far more than I.”  
“So how come people still die?” Dean asked.  
“I am not the only Reaper in existence,” Death said, calmly. “Lesser beings, ones who are genuinely creatures of this Earth... they can do my work while I am here. A few years stuck here is nothing for me. It’s merely an inconvenience, albeit one I would like over and done with as soon as possible.”  
Dean let out a stream of air in a silent whistle. “Am I meant to be panicking now, or...?”  
“You can remain as calm as you see fit, Dean,” Death told him. “I should be no more a celebrity to you than your left ear. Death is in all of you, as I will come for all of you, eventually.”  
Dean nodded. “Nice. Cool. Yup.” He took in a shaky breath, then asked with closed eyes, “Okay, so what’s that got to do with the ghosts?”  
“They are not the remains of the living, only memories; they are spirits trapped here, tethered to an object. An object that belongs to me.”  
“What object?”  
“That, Dean Winchester, is that part I don’t know. The souls belong to me. I was unable to let them pass over at the time of their death, for that is when I was captured.” He held up his wrists in the air, hands a short distance from each other. He tugged them gently apart, showing up a tether between his hands that was not really there, like a light made of shadow, keeping them tied to each other. A symbol of his imprisonment.  
“So... the Priestess has got something to do with this? She caught you somehow, and - and, what? What does she want you for?”  
“I am bound never to speak of it,” Death said, pointing to his lips, where another shadow of impossible colour lay across his mouth. “I regret that I cannot tell you.”  
“Can’t you write it down?”  
“If a curse were avoided so easily, would there really be any point in having it in the first place?” Death asked him, snidely. “Although, that is not to say that I haven’t tried.”  
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary face. Best week of his life, yes, but also the most bizarre, and unbelievable. He didn’t believe half the things himself. Maybe he’d wake up soon and realise he was dreaming.  
“You are not dreaming, Dean,” Death told him.  
“Yeah, well, that’s just what a dream would say. This one seems pretty vivid.”  
“You are not dreaming, Dean,” Castiel repeated, looking at him warmly. “I would be very upset if you were.”  
Dean blew a raspberry, scrunching his eyes up. “All right, what do you want from us? What’d you need?”  
Death blinked at him slowly. “Somewhere hidden at Limn’mere, at your pool, there is a small, unknown object, probably about as big as your hand, maybe smaller. I am afraid that it will prove impossible to find.”  
“Cas, could you use mojo? I think Death being trapped as a skinny old guy is cause to break out the magic dust.”  
“Angelic capability is nowhere near enough power to locate this object,” Death differed, a hand extended slightly with smoothly wrinkled fingers. “Neither is a psychic, no matter how powerful,” he added, stopping Dean’s train of thought before he voiced it.  
“So... what, we’re just meant to look around? Look under leaves, dig up the grass?”  
Death suddenly looked disheartened. “No, it would be impossible.” He looked into the middle-distance, thinking hard. “If you had been there so many times, you would have found it by now. It should _come_ to you.” He shook his head, conjuring a seat behind him and falling backwards into it. “Neither of you are the right person.”  
Dean licked his lips. “If we took other people there, let them have a look around―”  
“The right person is not in the city. The right person will not be here for―” he broke off to stare at the ceiling, ―five-and-a-half years.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes. “How can you know that?” Death looked at Dean. “Oh. Death. Right.”  
Castiel set his book down next to him. “Is there anything we can do to help this person get here, maybe get here sooner?”  
“Fate and destiny should not be confused, dear Castiel,” Death said to him. “This person’s fate is that they shall be the one to find what frees me. That’s a set point in time. Their destiny, however, is undetermined. I don’t know how they get here, or when they get here, but I know that they leave by means of escaping the castle prison.”  
“That’s impossible, Zamreer’s prisons are inescapable,” Dean scoffed.  
“Maybe the determination of a person able to find my freedom, is that they are able to do the impossible.”  
“Figures,” Dean muttered.  
“Although, I have to say,” Death said with a small chuckle, pulling an olive through the air into his hand, biting down delicately, “both of you play equally large parts in winning my freedom. Not so much in the actual role, but in the story leading up to it.”  
Dean frowned. “Am I meant to know what that means?”  
“You are the day, while Castiel is the night. Isn’t that lovely?”  
“The day people stop talking in riddles, that’s gonna be the day I die, I swear.”  
“I believe Death is prophesying for us,” Castiel mused. “I don’t think prophecies are ever very clear as to what they mean.”  
~x~  
Sam ran out in front of Chevy and stopped her from taking another step. He looked the somewhat startled Dean in the eye, then he laughed.  
“This is a joke, right?”  
Dean looked down at Sam then to the tree next to him, before refocusing on Sam. “Uh... no?”  
“You honestly expect me to believe that Capital-D Death, told you, that _I_ \- as in, _me_ \- would free Capital-D Death from his magical bonds?” Sam asked, a disbelieving smile still playing over his face.  
“Believe what you want, Sammy, it’s true. I swear.”  
“It’s _Sam_.” Sam watched as Dean shrugged himself off his horse and came to look him in the eye - or as close as he could be, given Sam’s height advantage. “That’s why you kidnapped me?”  
“Rescued.”  
“It’s doesn’t matter what it was, Dean,” Sam replied, tone irritated now, amusement fading. Dean seemed to believe his own story a little too much for comfort. “The fact is, I am out here - alone in the woods with a _madman_ ; a madman with some... inconceivable _story_ about love, about Death? _The_ Death, Dean. You do realise what you’re telling me, here, right?”  
“I get it, Sam,” Dean said, dangerously quiet. “I have no way to convince you, so you’re gonna have to trust me on this, okay?”  
“Trust you? No. No, Dean. I am not going to just - _trust_ you. You’ve left out half your story, I can see you’re hiding something from me, you’ve told me _literally nothing_ helpful. Nothing about your bird, or why you’ve been cut from the Guard, why your so-called love of your life was out there with the wolf last night - why you _slept through that_. Who sleeps through a wolf attack, Dean? If that’s even your name? I can’t believe anything you’ve spent all day telling me!”  
“You want something? You want proof?” Dean asked, suddenly animated. “Here, take a look at this, would you?” Dean pulled round to the side of his horse and drew the sword Sam had stolen from the Guardswoman. “Look at this.”  
He handed it to Sam, who took it by the middle of the blade, flat on his palm. Once Dean let go of the hilt, Sam hefted it, looking the blade up and down. Its hilt was wrapped in criss-crossing red leather, a twist of gold around a red stone in the pommel, finely smoothed into flat sides all over.  
“What about it?”  
“Want to guess its name, Sam?”  
Sam frowned. “You want me to believe this is Sabbath?”  
“It doesn’t matter what you believe, this is that sword.”  
“Magic angel sword?” Sam asked, smirking.  
Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Fight me,” he instructed, pulling Wendigo from his belt. Sabbath didn’t have a scabbard; the Guardswoman still had it. Sam hesitated, then held the sword out in front of him, unsurely.  
“You’ve never fought with a sword before, have you?” Dean asked.  
“Not a real one.”  
“I’m going to attack you, for real. Let the sword guide you.”  
Sam huffed. “That’s crazy.”  
“Do it, Sam. Or I’ll end up killing you.”  
“Dean, I’m not going to―”  
Dean launched himself at Sam, swiping at his shoulder with a real, fierce attack. Sam blocked. Then attacked back.  
“Holy - Dean, what’s―”  
“Just proving a point, Sammy,” Dean laughed, slashing at Sam’s knees from behind. Sabbath swung downwards, knocking his sword away. The swords clashed halfway down, blades slicing along their sides, vibrating with the weight each man leant on them.  
“That’s - not possible,” Sam gasped, wielding his sword like he’d been using one for years. “Does it work for - uff - work for anyone like this?”  
“Only those - hey, watch it - those who have honour or justice or peace, or whatever it was Cas told me.”  
“Dean, I’m a thief, I basically live to avoid all of those things.”  
“Take it from the sword, Sammy. It’s telling you that underneath it all, you’re a good person.”  
Sam laughed, like Dean’s words were a joke, and took a final swipe at the man, knocking his sword out of his hand with strength he knew he didn’t possess.  
“Whew,” Dean said, watching his black-handled blade whistle into the trees behind them with a flash of silver in the early evening sunlight. “You believe me now?”  
“About the sword. Not about Death.”  
Dean sighed, hopping over a fallen tree trunk to fetch his sword. “Anyway, your prophecy isn’t the only reason we’re headed over there,” he said, voice distant as he bent to rummage in the undergrowth.  
“Over where? To Limn’mere? Back to Zamreer?” Sam’s stomach sank. “Dean, I just escaped from there, you’re taking me back?”  
“Hold it, hold it, let me explain.” Dean hurried back to Sam, sheathing Wendigo and taking Sabbath from Sam, caressing it with gloved hands before slipping it back into the makeshift rope scabbard at the side of Chevy’s saddlebag.  
“You’ve spent all day explaining, Dean. You’ve gotten nowhere.”  
“Capital-D Death’s issue with the ghosts and the lost object, and the reason I need this sword - totally separate issues,” Dean said, shaking his hands and visually separating the words in the air. “I just figured since I found you with the sword, I could kill two birds with one stone.”  
“So why do you need the sword? Other than because it’s magic?”  
“No, that’s the same thing. Magic’s why I need it.”  
“Explain.”  
Dean sighed and sat down on the log. Chevy hung her head next to his, and Dean stroked her muzzle. “I have to kill someone.”  
Sam looked at Dean, putting a hand to his head with a unsurprised sigh. “Tell me, does this walking corpse have a name?”  
“Her Grace, Meg Masters, Priestess of Zamreer.”  
“The _Priestess?!_ ” Sam balked.  
Right. It was time to leave.  
“Well. Well then, you - you have a lot to do,” Sam mused, looking around for the fastest way out of this forest. “And I’ve already been enough of a burden to you,” he added, gently clasping his palms together. He swallowed. “I hope - our paths cross again sometime,” he said, taking a step backwards, considering whether he could take off with Chevy and get away with it.  
“Sam, sit down.”  
“No,” Sam said, taking another step backwards. “You’re insane. Death? Prophecies? _Ghosts?_ It’s not real, Dean.”  
“Cas told me something when I said that once, you remember? Cas told me that I could believe in God, in magic swords, for you it’s your imaginary brother - shut up for a second, Sam - you just saw proof of the sword, why can’t you believe the rest? Death told me you were gonna escape from prison, so I followed you after you broke out. And rescued you when you needed it. And then you had the sword, hey, that was a twofer for me.”  
“Me escaping from prison, that was a fluke!” Sam shouted, a hand raised from his head. “There was a grate loose in the floor, I could feel a draft, I could smell the water! I fell down a hole and followed my nose, there was nothing impossible about it!”  
Dean stood up, sidling forward on those bowlegs of his. “The fact was that you did it, when no-one else ever did. Death told me you’d do it, and you did. He told me and Cas you’d have a big role in fixing mine and Cas’ problem, so really, what’ve I got to lose? I help Death by fetching you, you help me.”  
“I’m not here to fix your relationship problems, Dean.” Sam frowned, hand on a tree, ready to push off it to run if he needed to. “If you and Cas are having issues, you talk it out with her. She said it, she said she’d ‘be there’ for you. If I were you I’d take that offer.”  
“It’s not that sort of problem.”  
“Take it you’re not gonna tell me the problem right now, are you?”  
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  
“Didn’t think so.”  
Dean’s shoulders crumpled, and he looked like a lost, kicked little dog, all over again. Sam almost felt bad for him.  
“Look, Sam,” Dean said, quietly, eyes on the leaves on the ground between them. “I’ve waited more than five years for this, for you to show up.” He looked up and met Sam’s eye, and Sam flinched behind his tree. “The least you could do is humour me.”  
Sam shook his head slowly, examining the tree bark. “I owe you my life, Dean. But I can never repay you. I’m a thief, I take what’s not mine and I get the hell outta dodge. I’m not sticking around to help you do something that is gonna get me captured and hung all over again.”  
Dean looked down at the ground again as Sam continued, “I don’t think you’d kill me, for turning you down, but this...” Sam gestured at their surroundings, at the trees with the falling leaves, orange in the falling sunlight, “this just isn’t my scene.” He made to leave, turning his back. He’d walk all the way out of here if he needed to. “I’m leaving, Dean. Don’t follow me.”  
There was a whistle of moving air, and the tree beside Sam’s head splintered with an almighty _thwack_. Turning to look at it, Sam saw the wobbling blade of Wendigo stuck from it, thrown with such a force that would have easily split his head in two, had it been a few more inches to the left. Sam swallowed, reaching a hand to still the blade as it danced from side to side with rebounding force. It was a very simple threat, and Sam could take a hint.  
“You know what? I think I’ll gather some firewood.”  
~  
Raphael kept up his pace, never slowing or stopping. He’d ridden all day, all night - and then this whole day too. He’d changed horses six times, galloped the entire length of the kingdom. He was sore all over, exhausted beyond belief, but he had no choice; he had to ride on.  
He was almost there, anyway: the kingdom of Zamreer was on the horizon. He sighed with relief, and pushed his horse on this last length, kicking down the path. People leapt out of his way, farmers mostly. He rode onward, no care for treading on their toes.  
He rushed over the drawbridge with a clatter of hooves, taking the city turnings and roads swiftly, knowing them like the back of his hand. People steered clear, and he kept on going. The guards between archways recognised him - as they should - and they let him pass without a thought.  
Finally, he came to the central courtyard, outside the chapel. Only eleven days ago, he had been here, informing the Priestess that the prisoner named Sam had escaped. Now he was back, bringing news of even more significant bearing.  
The Priestess stood in the courtyard, her dress robes a dazzling white in the last of today’s sunlight before it fell behind the roof of the castle. She watched dancers sway, gently, like they were being pushed by a breeze. Peacocks strutted at their feet. A monk strummed a lyre, another plucked at a harp. The Priestess watched them, her back to Raphael as he approached, limping slightly.  
Raphael waited until the song came to an end. The Priestess did not turn to face him, but she already knew he was there. “I assume you found the criminal, Raphael,” she said, lightly.  
“I regret that he is not in my custody at this time, your Grace,” Raphael replied, tone as bold as ever.  
The Priestess laughed, a tinkle of a thing, delicate hand over her heart. Then she turned to glare at him, fury like fire in her eyes. “Then why do you come to me, unwashed, unshaved - do you expect to find him _here?_ ”  
Raphael lowered his head, showing acknowledgement of her displeasure at his appearance. Then he took a breath, looking Priestess Masters in the eye. Her jaw was set, but she waited for his words.  
“Dean Winchester... has returned.”  
The Priestess seemed to tense all over, the fury gone from her, but replaced with concern, and perhaps fear. “Walk with me,” she commanded, beckoning to Raphael. She waved away the guard that began to follow her, so she and Raphael were alone.  
The woman was silent while they walked through the arches at the side of the garden, her heels tapping briskly. When they were out of earshot of anyone who might overhear, she opened her mouth to speak, still walking. “Tell me.”  
Raphael drew a weary breath, then replied, “The escaped criminal travels with him. I left my men to follow them; they are combing the woods in the north as we speak.”  
“And the hawk?” the Priestess demanded, head turning sharply towards her Captain. “What of the bird?”  
Raphael frowned in question. “Your Grace?”  
“There must be a hawk,” the Priestess hissed, sucking the back of her lips like they tasted sour. “A spirited thing, blue eyes.” She sighed roughly through her nose, turning back to Raphael as she ceased walking. “This hawk is not to be harmed, you understand?” Raphael gave a jerky nod, not sure of this instruction. The Priestess glared at him intently. “If that hawk dies, a new Captain of the Guard will take your place, on the day of your execution.”  
Raphael nodded firmly, accepting this as truth.  
The Priestess swept away, gesturing at Raphael to follow. “God spoke to me last night,” she said, eyes on the sky, the paling blue visible through the wall’s arches. “He told me... that Dean Winchester must be killed. At any cost.” She stopped walking again, eyes boring into Raphael’s. “You understand that, of course.”  
Raphael did, and he smiled, teeth bared like a hissing cat’s.  
“Go,” the Priestess ordered, holding out her ring for Raphael to kiss. “To break faith with me is to break faith with Him,” glancing up to the sky on her last word. Raphael nodded, pressing his lips to the golden snake woven around the red stone on her finger.  
He backed away with his face toward her, then turned and left.  
The Priestess made her way back to the dancers, calling to her attendants. She clapped her hands twice, drawing their attention. “Get me Alastair!”  
~  
“Is this really necessary?” Sam asked, struggling against Dean’s hands. Dean twisted a rope across his wrists, binding his hands around a tree.  
“I’m not having you take off in the night.”  
“Who says I’d do that?” Sam asked innocently. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”  
Dean straightened up, brushing his hands off. “Nope.”  
Sam snorted and shuffled his feet, digging grooves in the leaves under him. At least he was sitting down, since he’d probably be here all night. “If I tried to take off you’d just catch me anyway. What’s the point?”  
“I’m a very deep sleeper,” Dean reasoned, tying Chevy to the next tree along, on Sam’s right. There was a dip in the ground behind Sam, a tiny cliff face about half the height of a person. The sunlight had already vanished from there, and the darkness was slowly encroaching further up.  
Sam wriggled his hands, trying to get comfortable. As soon as Dean was gone, he’d do his best to untie these. And then he’d be out of here like a shot. Dean wasn’t as smart as he thought he was - he’d left him a horse and a sword and supplies; Sam could go anywhere he wanted and he’d probably never be caught.  
“‘Night, Sammy,” Dean said, calling over his shoulder.  
“It’s _Sam!_ And where are you going? It’s not even dark yet!”  
“See ya tomorrow morning!” Dean called, hidden behind trees already. His footsteps receded, and Sam was alone. Well, there was Chevy.  
“He always disappear for the night?” he asked the horse, wriggling his fingers in an attempt to loosen the knots. Wow, these were tight.  
Chevy snorted and pawed the ground, then hung her head. She was still wearing her saddle and bridle, but their supplies were off to the side, in a pile between Sam’s boots and Chevy’s hooves. Sam spent some time trying to reach the pack, where he could see Sabbath’s hilt poking out of the top. If he could reach that, he could cut himself loose. After half an hour's worth of escape attempts, he decided it was hopeless, and gave up.  
With a sigh, he instead spent his time trying to sit comfortably on the lumpy ground, ignoring the dampness of leaves on his backside.  
 _Brother,_ Sam sighed, knocking his head repeatedly on the trunk of the tree behind him. _Should I be worried for him? He’s clearly out of his mind,_ he thought, picturing Dean in his mind’s eye, talking in a friendly conversation with Capital-D Death. _I mean,_ Death _, really? And a prophecy? I’m not cut out for this, Brother. Where’s the fun in hanging around with madmen if they expect you to actually believe their stories?  
Sure it’d be okay, I’d humour him. But not if I’m gonna have to walk right into Zamreer and get myself captured. Maybe this is like, some elaborate trick, to get me to come right back to prison. Dean was Captain, or so he said. He’s probably just trying to get on the Priestess’ good side, re-capturing the escapee._  
Sam knocked his head back against the tree again, then stayed there, resting as he watched the sky turn a darker blue, stars starting to twinkle through the canopy of leaves.  
 _As soon as he unties me tomorrow, I’m off. Don’t care where, just... not re-capture. Don’t really care about the rest of his story, he can stick it. Probably all lies anyway, just to keep me interested while I walked with him._  
Sam sucked on his tongue. _But... The Reaper Massacre. His parents, his brother..._  
He turned away from the sky, levelling his gaze as if looking Brother in the eye. _I know you’re not real, but maybe... if I really had a brother, if I had a brother from the fires, not killed, not like Dean’s brother was..._  
Sam’s thoughts trailed off, chewing his lip. _It’d be cool, y’know? To have a family. Maybe even Dean―_  
“Ngh!”  
Sam froze. “Hello?” he called, back tense as he pulled away from the tree, straining to see in the darkness.  
A human gasp of exertion rose from the dark, quiet mutterings and a rustle of leaves.  
“Who’s there? Dean?”  
All he heard was a scuffle, more hushed whispering, but no voice.  
“Cas?”  
The rustling stopped. Sam fought hard to hear anything, but everything was being swallowed by the night, and his ears were ringing with the silence.  
“Cas, if you’re there―” Sam wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to her, really. “Um, Dean’s been telling me your story, right from when you two met...”  
Silence.  
“You know, if you’re having problems, like... girl problems? I’d, um, talk to him. Instead of following him around at night. It’s kind of stalkerish, but I don’t think... you’re not really going to solve it like that.” It was his chip-in, but he wasn’t really all geared up for giving advice. It was just better that they fixed it themselves, since Sam wasn’t about to leap in and do it for them, no matter what Dean said.  
After long seconds with no reply, Sam found himself missing the sound of his own voice, if only to fill the void of silence. A rabbit rushed past his feet, and Sam jerked in surprise. A sigh of irritation came from behind the tree, and Sam smirked. “Are you doing that thing Dean said you do? Making animals come to you?” Predictably, there was no reply, but Sam continued, “I don’t think they like it when you kill them and eat them.”  
A minute of silence followed, in which Sam chewed his tongue, trying to hear something, anything. Nothing.  
Then there was a footfall somewhere out in front of Sam, somewhere behind the trees. He couldn’t see anything, curse this darkness. It wasn’t Castiel - she was behind him. It was someone else.  
“Hello?”  
A woman laughed, stepping out from behind a tree. Sam couldn’t see her face, but her shadowy shape was petite, and she creaked as she took another step toward him, probably laden with stiff leather. “I’m hardly going to say hi back, now, am I?” she said, striding right up to his feet. She kicked at his boots with her own, nudging his outstretched foot where it lay on the ground.  
“Aww, did Mister Winchester tie you up?” she crooned in false sympathy. “I’d cut you loose, but that would be stupid.”  
“Who are you?” Sam asked, squinting at her in the inky blackness.  
“You don’t recognise me?” she replied, a slight surprised. “I’m the bitch you stole the sword from, Sammy.”  
“Oh.”  
“I’m a great tracker, kid. Pity you didn’t notice, or you wouldn’t be in so much trouble come morning, when Winchester finds his sword is gone.”  
“What? No―”  
“Oh, honey. I’m taking it, you can’t stop me.” She made her way to the pile of supplies, knocking things away until she curled her hand around the hilt. She withdrew it, weighing it happily in her hand, blade glinting silver in the tiny amount of moonlight that filtered through the trees. “I’ve never lost a fight with this sword, did you know that?”  
“It doesn’t like evil people, so I can’t imagine why that would be.”  
“I’m not evil, Sammy,” the woman said sternly, sheathing the sword in the scabbard at her side. “I just fight for the bad guys. Its not like I had any choice in the matter; none of us really did - not to start with. Some of us just chose to stick around when Raphael turned human.”  
“He’s human?”  
The woman snorted. “‘Course. All the angels are now. Ran out of divine power, or whatever it was they had.”  
“Huh,” Sam said.  
“Yeah,” the woman agreed. Sam heard a shuffle as she stepped over leaves and pulled her horse out from behind a tree, seeing the gleam of metal of its bit as it shook its head. “The sword’s all I came for, I don’t really care if they catch you, so...”  
“Hey, what’s your name?”  
“Hm? Oh, Ruby―”  
Sam heard a thud as she was hit over the head, then a second thump as she hit the ground. He could barely see, but he could make out the silhouette of a cloaked person across the tiny clearing, as they dragged her to a tree a few feet away from Sam’s.  
Ruby’s horse whinnied in surprise, but stayed where it was, snorting.  
“Cas, did you just knock her out?” Sam grinned. “Good going, man. I mean - my lady,” he added quickly, so as not to offend. “Nice moves.”  
Castiel was silent, but she hovered over the pile of supplies, looking for something. She went back to Ruby and removed the scabbard containing Sabbath from her belt. She sheathed the sword and placed it back in the pile.  
“Hey, Cas, if you need rope to tie this Ruby chick up - there’s some around my wrists.” He could almost imagine Castiel’s pale face, giving him a very disapproving look with those bright blue eyes Dean kept describing. “Look, Dean only tied me up ‘cause he thought I’d bolt. I thought his story about Death, about his weird prophecy thing... I kind of fit the bill, escaped from prison, and whatever. But - I’m not going anywhere, all right? Dean saved my life, and... I owe him. I guess I owe you too, you kept that wolf away from me last night. And - clearly he was right about the magic sword, since everyone seems to want it now.”  
Sam exhaled through his nose, seeing only the pale skin of Castiel’s bare feet under Dean’s travelling cloak. “I _want_ to leave, but... I’m staying. All right?” Silence. Sam gritted his teeth and knocked his head against the tree again.  
He’d just about resigned himself to being stuck there all night, when he felt warm hands on his wrists, gentle fingertips brushing his skin as Castiel untied him. “Oh, God, thanks Cas,” he whispered, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them while the blood rushed to his hands.  
Finally, he was free, and he pulled his hands around and shook them out, warmth flooding back.  
He stood up, about to thank Castiel face-to-face, when a howl cut through his thoughts.  
A wolf.  
Oh God, not again.  
“Thank you, m’lady, but I just changed my mind. Uh, I’m - not sticking around any more. Wolf!” He grabbed Ruby’s horse, leapt onto its back and slid into its saddle. The stirrups knocked at his legs but he ignored that for now. He took the horse’s reins and kicked to a gallop, heading for where the sun had set earlier, where the trees were thinner. In the open air, he’d be able to see where he was going.  
He left the clearing with the fallen angel and unconscious Guard woman far behind, tasting freedom, at long last.  
He trotted until the horse tired, then he let it fall to a comfortable walk, and by the time he could feel the morning chill setting in, knowing dawn was approaching, they were walking slowly. They were still not clear of the trees.  
Sam was fighting sleep. Several times he’d caught himself slipping away, jerking awake and finding himself in a completely different stretch of woodland. The horse kept up its stride, even if it was slow. Sam patted it occasionally, stopping for water when they passed a stream.  
There were less supplies on this horse, not enough to live by, like there was on Chevy’s sides. But despite also not having a weapon, Sam felt he was crafty enough by himself to not have to worry. He knew how to set a trap, and he could start a fire if need be. He’d be fine on his own.  
Just as dawn broke on the horizon, Sam broke through the edge of the forest. He wandered onto rocky, open ground; green grass still grey in the rising light. It was mountainous, hills rising jaggedly all over. This area was mostly sheltered by rocks, and for that Sam was grateful. He had no heading yet, but first he would need a good place to stop and get his bearings.  
He pulled the horse up by a grey-dotted incline, letting it wait there, untethered, as he climbed up the slanted rock face. He found a cave, only a jut of rock above a grassy slope, but he lay there for a while and snoozed. He couldn’t sleep, not properly. Just a few hours, that should be enough.  
~  
“This one of ours?”  
“‘s got the saddlecloth. Anyone seen Ruby, anyway? Haven’t seen her since Raphael left.”  
“Who cares? Girl’s crap.”  
“You’re only saying that ‘cause she punched you in the nose.”  
“Suck it, Walt.”  
“You suck it.”  
Sam almost hit his head on the rock above him as he sat up suddenly. These had to be the men in Dean’s story. Walt, and presumably, Roy. At least some of it was true, then.  
Sam’s heart was thrumming in his mouth as he heard the men banter some more. They took the horse, and Sam let out a hiss of relief when they didn’t look up and search for him. He liked unobservant enemies.  
He snuck out the side of his tiny cavern, onto the grassy hill. It was slippery, morning frost not quite gone yet. It must be, what, eleven in the morning? Sam climbed upward, low to the ground so he wouldn’t be spotted. He still had Dean’s brown poncho over his shoulders, and it was getting wet and gritty from his crawling.  
Gradually, with the forest at his back, he poked his head up from behind the rock at the top of the hill. There was a camp set up at the foot of the hill, a whole camp full of Guardsmen. Sam dropped back down and put a hand to his temple in shock. He’d run straight into the clutches of the Guard, yet again.  
He looked out again, taking in the small line of tents. There weren’t more than five men - Walt, Roy - Sam didn’t know which was which. Raphael was apparently gone, Ruby was still tied up in the forest. Dean had killed two of this troupe when he’d rescued Sam, and his friend Gordon had been pushed by Raphael onto Dean’s sword. Of the ten men that Sam had run into at the girl Jess’ inn, only five remained here. And of all the places Sam could have run to, this is where he had run.  
Sam turned back around, perfectly content to go hide out in the woods for the rest of eternity. Instead, he met with a pair of boots and a well-armoured pair of thighs. He looked up, and found the man with the pointed chin and a serious glaring problem, staring him down from above.  
“Oh, boy,” Sam breathed, as a solid hand descended onto his shoulder.  
He was dragged down the hill, right into the camp, legs tripping over rocks embedded in the grass, feet slipping.  
“You’ll never guess what I found,” the Guardsman growled, seeing another man stepping out from a tent.  
“Hey - isn’t that―”  
“Our elusive Sam, I believe,” a hefty black man said, appearing from behind the first Guard. “Long way from the sewers, aren’t you?” He stood an inch below Sam, so only had to reach a short way to take Sam's chin in his meaty hands. "Tell me," he said, forcing Sam to look at him, "Where is Winchester?"  
“Winchester?” Sam asked, playing the innocent card. He didn’t really have a hope, but he was out of ideas. Or maybe not - “Oh, _Winchester_. Stocky guy, bowlegs? Big black horse? Yeah, yeah. He’s, uh, riding south. Toward Zamreer.”  
Another Guardsman huffed behind the hefty bald guy that held Sam’s face. “Then we ride north. He’s lying.”  
Sam huffed. “You just assume I’m lying? You’ve only just met me, you can’t know I’m lying.”  
The man before Sam dropped his chin, smirking with full, dark lips. “Yet you assumed we would take your word as a lie,” he said, voice like oil. “We ride south,” he said to his men, turning away. “Toward the city.”  
Sam growled under his breath in dismay. “So this is what the truth gets me. Pff.” He was dragged into a tent and gagged with a strip of white cloth between his teeth. It tasted like salt, and made his gums itch. He was shoved back into the open air, the full cover of grey clouds above almost undisturbed by wind.  
He was tied to a horse, hands tethered by a lead behind his back. Being tied to a tree was less painful than this, he conceded, as he was forced almost to his knees, the horse trotting forward faster than he could walk.  
 _Brother,_ he thought, glancing up to the man on horseback beside him, as if checking that he couldn’t hear his thoughts, before continuing. _I’d seriously take Dean and his crazy stories over this right now. At least he wasn’t outright trying to put me back in jail. He was a bit more subtle about it._  
The troupe of Guardsmen kept on walking, and Sam kept stumbling. These bonds were even tighter than Dean’s, but these ones chafed, too. His fingers were numb, the only thing he could feel below his elbows was the rub of rope against his wrists, sore and burning as he was twisted and pulled on shaking legs.  
At least the men seemed less inclined to kill him, not like last time, when they were going to slit his throat. He didn’t know what had changed - maybe they needed him as bait for Dean this time. Knowing these guys, and how much they seemed to hate Dean... yeah, that wasn’t a stretch. Sam decided he didn’t like being bait.  
One of the Guards overtook Sam on horseback, pulling up to the front of the caravan to speak with the black guy. Sam craned his neck trying to see, but was heaved sideways so hard that his face hit the side of the horse. He wriggled his nose, trying to stop it aching.  
They changed course soon after, trotting into an open field of short grass, haystacks rolled and bundled in lumps over the expanse of land. A farmer stood with a pitchfork, watching the Guardsmen and a foot-dragging Sam pass him without even a word.  
“Wait here,” the big guy said, dropping off of his horse with a thud. He communed with a couple of other Guards, looking out behind from a haystack at something on the path they’d just come from.  
Sam considered that it might be Dean coming to his rescue again, but that was the low point of his thoughts. Mostly, he hoped it was something that would distract the Guards enough that he could acquire a horse and get the hell out of here, hands tied or not.  
“Get on the horse,” the pointy-chinned man said, shoving Sam. Sam looked at him crookedly, not sure what was going on any more. He was pretty much dragged up, a firm hand strangling him as it grabbed his clothes. But there he was, stuck on a horse behind either Walt or Roy, he didn’t know or care which.  
Every man in the Guard’s attention was now fixated on something beyond the field of haystacks, a dark shape moving in the distance. A horse maybe? Sam could hardly see, the man in front kept moving in his eyeline, his horse jittery and ready to bolt.  
“Ready your crossbows,” the black man said, low-voiced, a hand raised to point two fingers at their target.  
It had to be Dean, it had to.  
The moment the man in front of Sam turned his attention away, pulling the wire of his crossbow taut with an arrow slotting into place, Sam pulled his arms awkwardly over his own head. He felt them strain and pop uncomfortably, wrists turning under the rope, before he felt the relief of having his arms in front of him, where blood could flow to them. Of course, that only increased the burn of rope against his wrists, but he ignored it - suddenly pulsing with adrenaline, he slipped his bound hands over the head of the man in front of him, aiming to strangle. He didn’t even think; he had to help Dean, and being tied up was no way to do it.  
The man in front of him did not take kindly to being attacked, struggling and elbowing Sam in the jaw. Not expecting that, Sam fell off the back of the horse, landing on his side, hard. He thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t fallen on a rock.  
“Ready, men,” came a gruff command, and Sam heard the slip of unsheathing swords as he lay there, dazed and dizzy. His eyes slowly swam into focus. Seeing a sharp rock, he began to rub his wrists over it, the fibres of the rope fraying and snapping as he kept at it. He grazed his skin and left sore scrapes over his wrists, but he managed it. Hands freed, he struggled to remove the gag in his mouth, feeling it choking him as he pulled at it.  
“On three,” the black man whispered, holding up a hand with three fingers raised, dropping the first, the second―  
“Dean!” Sam yelled, sounding a warning.  
Just in time. Dean came into view from behind a haystack, startled by the cry. Sam saw him throw the hawk from his arm, saw it soar into the sky and away from the melee that began on the ground.  
Dean struck the first blow, knocking a study-looking pale man clean off his horse, where he landed on all fours and attempted to slash at Chevy’s legs with his sword. He got a horseshoe in the stomach for that, and Sam smirked, sneaking behind a haystack to find some sort of weapon, anything.  
He found nothing, and instead crouched with hay prickling the side of his neck, watching Dean do his thing. He really was impressive in battle; resourceful with his surroundings, reserved with his strength to conserve energy, but he knew where to stick stuff so it hurt.  
The current leader of the troupe got a pitchfork to the head; he fell to his knees clutching his bald scalp, blood dribbling over his nose. The man with the greedy eyes, he was hit in the neck with the other end of the same pitchfork. He wheezed and snuck away, stumbling. Crossbow arrows misfired - Dean was very good at avoiding them. Twice he missed them by just inches, turning his horse just in time to feel the brush of it as it cut in front of his chest.  
“Shoot him!” the black man screamed, hands covered in blood. “Shoot him!”  
Another miss - no, it hit Chevy’s saddlebag, she was unharmed but staggered sideways on slightly uneven footing. Dean yowled and threw his sword at the archer. “You know better than to hurt my horse, Roy!” he snarled, nose flaring. “All those years and you learned nothing!”  
Roy howled in pain, collapsing on the ground, sword falling out of his leg and clattering, bloody, to the grass. Sam crawled across to fetch it - behind him was another face, another Guard - Sam slashed at the man blindly, cutting across the armour of his chest. The man coughed, then reached up to grab Sam’s neck. He was far shorter than Sam, but his grip was incredible. Sam struggled, trying to hit the man with the sword again.  
“Hold it right there, I got him,” Walt said, a crossbow raised to the side of his head, one eye closed as he aimed at Sam. Sam kicked his legs roughly, trying to make the man in front of him fall.  
“Pick on someone your own size, Walt,” Dean said, coming up behind him and striking him across the head with the blunt of his sword. Walt’s crossbow slipped and spun in mid-air, firing as it hit the ground. Dean’s eye followed the arrow, saw it shoot into the sky, hitting his bird squarely in its side.  
“NO!”  
The man with the pointy chin shot Dean in the shoulder as he shouted. Dean was knocked back as the force hit him, but he didn’t fall from his horse. He reached an arm to the falling bird in the distance, hearing the tormented screech as it plummeted to Earth without a single beat of its wings.  
Dean let out a shout of absolute rage, his horse thundering past Sam as he stood helplessly. Dean took Sabbath from the side of the saddle, hand around the sheath as he ran, dropping it to his side as he wielded the blade.  
The scary-faced man lost his head. His body collapsed to its knees, then fell into the grass, bleeding out beside its disembodied skull, an expression of realisation frozen across his face. He had known he’d been about to die, in the single second before.  
Sam shivered with wide, terrorised eyes. He could never unsee that.  
A single man remained: the man who clutched his bruised stomach, heaving in pain. He sat doubled-over on his horse, ready to charge Dean down. Dean saw him, and made to charge directly back. The man saw the fire in his eyes and faltered, instead turning his horse and making his escape. A second later, Sam saw the remaining Guardsmen follow, the black man trailing blood over his white horse, the injured Roy hauling Walt's unconscious body over the back of his. They headed south, and didn’t look back.  
Sam ran after Dean, who was galloping towards his bird - the one named after his girl, the one named Cas.  
They were in empty field now, sunlight breaking through drifting clouds. Dean stopped his horse on the top of a small hill, dismounting carefully. He stuck Sabbath into the ground, upright, like a crucifix. As Sam reached the sword, he stuck Wendigo so they stood side-by-side.  
Dean approached his bird warily, centre of gravity low on bent knees. “Cas?”  
He finally tugged the arrow out of his armour, breaking it at the head. It had hardly scratched him. But the bird... it lay in a heap on the ground, a hopeless pile of feathers, arrow shaft poking out of its side like a flagpole.  
“It’ll be all right, it’ll... oh, no,” Dean moaned, seeing the damage the arrow had caused. He breathed heavily, looking frantically at the ground around him. He turned around and called to Sam, “Get me a piece of cloth!”  
Sam hesitated, then set his eyes upon Ruby’s wandering horse, the one he had ridden through the forest with last night. It eyed him warily as he approached, but Sam stilled it with a hand on its chest, reaching around and tugging the gold-embroidered red cloth from under the horse’s saddle. As soon as he’d removed the cloth, the horse bolted. Took off through the field, with no indication it would slow any time soon. Sam only spared a second to watch it, before turning and hurrying back, pushing the cloth into Dean’s waiting hand.  
Sam crouched beside the man, seeing the mess of a creature under his hands. Such a majestic hunter it had been, once. Its wings were crumpled, as if the bird wasn't sure what to do with them, now that it was on its back and lying on the ground. Its clawed feet flailed pathetically as the hawk tried its best its best to right itself. On its chest, the feathers were all lying the wrong way, blood smeared over them. It whimpered, tweeting like a sparrow.  
“It’s all right, Cas, it’s gonna be all right.” Dean’s voice was broken with sorrow and worry, his hands shaking. He pulled his gloves off and tossed them aside to caress the bird with his bare fingers.  
Leaving the arrow shaft untouched, he wrapped the creature in the red cloth, muttering hopeful words in reply to its pitiful twittering. “You’ll be fine, you’ll live... you’ll live.”  
Sam watched with concern, not as hopeful for its life as Dean was. The poor thing was clearly beyond repair, he thought sadly. Nothing could survive a shot like that.  
Dean stood up, cradling th injured bird like a baby. Sam stood too, having no choice but to accept when Dean handed the bird to him. “Take him,” he instructed, tone not worth arguing with. “Find help.”  
Sam fumbled with the cloth, holding the creature carefully, but unsurely. “Me? I can’t―”  
“You’re the only one I have,” Dean insisted, touching the bird’s yellow beak as it whistled quietly.  
“But, Dean - the poor thing is done for,” Sam reasoned. He’d seen animals injured, this was a fatal shot. It wouldn’t survive the night.  
“Don’t you say that!” Dean spat, teeth bared. Despite his shorter stance, Dean really made up for it with that fierce glare. “Don’t you _ever_ say that.” Dean’s eyes turned to anguish once more, weakly reaching to grip Sam’s collar, tugging him, begging him to understand. “You have to...”  
Dean took a shallow breath, turning around to point in the direction that the remaining Guardsmen had run. “Follow that road. Before nightfall, you’ll reach an old ruined castle. There’s a man there.” He looked Sam in the eye. “Bobby Singer.”  
Sam held back a retort, because really? More stories?  
But Dean looked so sincere, so desperate. It was then that Sam decided that Dean wouldn’t make this stuff up, not when it was so important to him. He nodded shakily, agreeing to help. “All right, all right. Fine.”  
“Get on my horse,” Dean said, waving Chevy over to them. “Don’t stop until you get there.”  
“Wait - you’re not coming?”  
“It’ll be faster with one of us, and I can catch up overnight.”  
“But how? The only other horse bolted―”  
“Don’t ask questions. Just don’t stop, don’t stop for anything.”  
Sam shook his head in bewilderment. Dean was crazy, he was totally crazy.  
Dean huffed in a breath. “Wait, I need you to take my clothes.”  
“What?”  
Dean was unbuckling his armour, only a few seconds for each side before he hooked it over the back of the horse. Sam looked at it curiously, then back to the shivering bird in his arms. “Dean, what―”  
Dean had taken his shirt off, throwing it behind Sam, then started on his trousers, grabbing his boots and pulling them off forcefully, shoving them into the saddlebag. He snatched his gloves off the grass and put them in too.  
“Dean, what the hell?”  
“Trust me, okay? I need you to take this stuff. And believe me, Sam - if you fail, if you don’t get there in time,” he growled, untying his breeches, “I will hunt you down.” He looked Sam in the eye as he stripped completely naked. “And I will find you. Believe me, I will find you.”  
He stuffed the last of his clothes into the saddlebag, along with both swords. He took one last look at his bird, then glanced to Sam atop his horse, who was staring at Dean’s naked chest in utter bemusement. He was completely, _absolutely_ crazy.  
“Go!” Dean shouted, tears in his eyes. He hit Chevy’s rump and she bolted, one hoof in front of the other in an automatic flawless gallop. She ran so fast, Sam only saw a naked blur of skin by the time he turned in the saddle to see Dean alone in the field.  
“All right, birdie,” Sam whispered to the hawk in his arms. “Just you, me, and the horse. Let’s get you some help, then.” Chevy whinnied, and impossibly, sped up.  
The scenery changed gradually over the day, half-cloudy skies drifted away to clear blue, rocky outcrop became farmland, a dust path between unfenced fields. He ran past orchards, vineyards, more empty, unclaimed land. The path was well-worn in some places, extremely difficult to find in others. But the horse knew the way. She knew what she was doing. If anything, Sam trusted Chevy.  
Sam’s rear got sorer and sorer, but he didn’t stop to eat, only once to let Chevy take a drink from a rainwater barrel, which he also drank from. He also washed the bird’s wound down with a gentle dribble of water, careful not to jostle the arrow shaft that still protruded from its side. Sam broke half of the arrow carefully, so it wouldn’t wrench or get knocked while they rode. The bird’s pale chest feathers ran with streaks of blood, dripping red down its shivering feet. It whimpered feebly, beak clicking and blue eyes half-closed.  
They rode on, Sam talking to Brother, the bird, the horse - anything to keep their minds free of the sheer pointlessness of this journey. He was transporting a fatally injured animal across half a kingdom, to a man he couldn’t even be sure existed. And as far as he could tell, there was nothing in it for himself.  
 _Between you and me, Brother, this might just be the craziest thing I’ve ever done. Besides steal from Ellen. And that was just plain stupid. This is... weirdly faithful, on my part._  
Sam shrugged his lip. “Huh. Maybe the magic sword was right. Maybe I’m not so bad.”  
Early afternoon came and went; the sun slunk across the sky, the clouds returning and washing away again. By the time sunset was near, pink fluffy lines dotted the horizon, and the orange orb of the sun was swimming in warm colours. “We’re almost there,” Sam whispered to the hawk, and it chirruped back weakly. “I can see the castle, it’s gotta be this place.”  
Chevy didn’t slow, only keeping up her pace as they climbed a grassy hill with the road cut through it. “Hang in there, birdie.”  
~  
Thunder began to roll.  
Dean shivered and clutched his knees tighter, not wanting to put names to the flurry of emotions he’d been drowning in since midday. They mostly all hurt like hell.  
Sunset was falling; it was almost time.  
Lightning struck the ground a few miles away, and Dean took a breath in. That was a sign, he knew it was. The thunder that followed was an agreement.  
Everything was going to be okay.  
It had to be.  
~  
There were lights burning inside this place, but despite that, it looked formidable. It was a thick chunk of rock on the cliff face, built from grey stone. As Sam got closer, he saw how derelict it was; turrets fallen, stone blocks littering the grass, grass of its own growing over the broken stonework.  
The drawbridge was as narrow as a bridge to cross a stream, and it was already lowered.  
“Hello?” Sam called out, voice cracking from disuse and thirst. He swallowed and tried again. “Hello!”  
“What? What’dya want down there?” came a gruff voice, the kind that wasn’t used to shouting.  
“Bobby Singer?”  
“That’s what they call me,” the man confirmed, voice quiet as he growled instead of yelling.  
“I was told to bring you this bird, it’s been wounded!”  
“Heh, good shot, boy - bring it in, I’ll get a spitfire roastin’!”  
“We can’t eat this bird!” Sam called back, looking up at a jowly man with a short grey beard, whose head had poked over the top of a turret. “This is no normal kind of hawk, Father! It belongs to a man named Dean!”  
“Dean - oh _balls_ ,” the man said quietly, but just on the edge of Sam’s hearing. “Well don’t just sit there, bring him in boy. Quickly!” he shouted, hurrying away. A few seconds later, the portcullis raised with a series of clacks, and Sam nudged Chevy forward to the entrance. He dismounted before the bridge, leaving her to wander off to do her own thing, her job was done.  
“Over here, boy,” Father Singer called, beckoning with an arm from the other side of the bridge. “Don’t step on the grey planks, only the brown ones,” he called, and Sam realised the man was pointing to the bridge below his feet, and he’d been about to tread on a paler plank. He switched his feet and walked carefully, gentle hands cradling the bird in the bloody saddlecloth.  
“Here, quickly, quickly,” Singer muttered, ushering Sam through a side gate and round a corner. Sam was swallowed by gloom, then his eyes adjusted from the exposure of sunlight, to find they were in a stone room, candles set by individually around the walls. Father Singer closed the wooden door to outside behind them, pointing to a bed laid out on the right, three candles set into the wall above it. “There, put him there.”  
Sam shifted forward, carrying the bird like a baby. He stepped down a couple of stairs, coming to rest the creature on the mattress, so very gently, cloth still wrapped around it. The arrow remained stuck from its chest, for removing it would have let the blood flow, and the bird would‘ve been dead in minutes. Sam touched its chest gingerly, feeling very sorry for the wretched thing. It twittered and flinched as his fingers met the arrow shaft, and he withdrew his hand with an internal apology.  
Bobby Singer hovered right behind him as Sam stood, rubbing his fingers together as he felt blood stuck to them.  
“Now, leave us,” Bobby said.  
“I can help―”  
“Out, boy!”  
Sam bit the back of his lip and retreated up the small staircase, making to leave by the door they’d come in through.  
Bobby knelt and leaned over the hawk, shaking his head. “Dean was right,” he sighed, pulling back the cloth and examining the damage. “I know what to do. Hold on for it, Cas.”  
He turned his head to see through the slit of a window in the wall, looking out at the setting sun. “We gotta wait a while. Hang in there.”  
Once Sam had closed the door behind him, he pressed close to listen, but only heard rustling and the sound of footsteps on dust as Bobby paced. This went on for far longer than Sam thought sensible - surely the hawk’s condition was worsening? Bobby didn’t seem to be doing anything, only waiting for something.  
Waiting for what?  
Slowly the air grew colder as the sun reached the horizon, the sky dropping into a shallow blue when the last of the orange disappeared behind distant mountains. Sam stopped his own pacing as he heard more rustling from inside. He pressed his ear to a crack in the wood, listening. There were voices, and... a low moan of pain? Was that Bobby’s voice?  
Sam grew increasingly more confused as he heard a conversation, the voices too quiet to make out, but it sounded very much like Bobby was having a full discussion with himself, playing both the part of himself, and a deeper-voiced persona. Sam looked at the door’s leaking lines of candlelight and blinked, stunned. _Another_ madman? How was the hawk ever going to be treated like this? He shook his head and promptly gave up all hope for the unlucky animal. It was surely dead by now.  
“Hold on, let me get you some herbs,” Bobby muttered, voice closer to the door. Sam stepped backward, hiding around the first corner in the shadows. The door to the room opened with a gritty shriek, Bobby holding a pair of chunky metal scissors in one hand as he made his way away from the room. He mumbled as he went, a hand to his head, grumbling.  
His back was turned as he headed back across the drawbridge, so Sam snuck out from the shadows and slunk to the door. He lifted the round handle and tugged it open, holding the door’s weight so it didn’t scream like it had done for Bobby. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, turning to check on the hawk.  
The hawk was gone.  
Instead, there on the bed lay a pale, dark-haired man covered chest-to-toes by a fur blanket, head tipped back and skin shiny with sweat. A pale scar cut down to his chin from his lip: thin, like a scratch. Sam stopped in his tracks. He had no idea what to make of this. Then he noticed the arrow lodged in the man's left shoulder, shaft pointing to the ceiling.  
Hearing Sam’s gasp, the man turned his head to look at him, and Sam, eyes wide, turned to leave.  
“Wait,” the man said, voice deep like an ocean wave. It was strained with pain, exertion. “Dean, is he...?”  
Sam kept his eyes averted, face to the door, ready to let himself out. He wasn’t meant to be in here. “Dean’s fine. He’s... he’s fine.”  
Sam heard the man’s head drop back to the bed, a sigh of relief. Sam’s eyes flickered, and he looked back to the bed, seeing the man lick his dry, pink lips. Before he could stop himself, Sam blurted, “There was a fight... a battle. Dean fought amazingly. He - he killed a man..”  
He drew a shaky breath, stepping slowly back to the bed as he continued, "The hawk..." Sam took another step, descending the stairs. “The hawk... was struck.”  
The man slowly reached to touch the arrow in his shoulder, fingers curling around it. He closed his eyes and swallowed.  
Sam stopped a few feet from the bed. “You know that, don’t you?”  
“Yes,” whispered the man. It was the whisper from the clearing, the night the blue-eyed woman had taken the wolf from the dead woman’s throat, when it followed at her heels into the forest.  
It was the same voice, but this was clearly male, deep and gruff. Somehow, Sam knew beyond a doubt that it was the same person. That woman had not been a woman. Sam didn’t know how it could be possible, but this man and she, they were one and the same.  
“Castiel,” Sam concluded. The man only looked back at him through tired eyes, blinking slowly.  
This was impossible. A man couldn’t be a hawk. Maybe Sam was as mad as everyone else.  
“Are - are you man, or are you spirit?”  
The man closed his eyes, mouth turned down at the corners. There was not a speck of happiness in him. “I am sorrow.”  
Sam somehow felt the man’s heart, heavy with pain, only for a second. It weighed him down so much he thought he was going to fall into the ground. He swallowed, light-headed once the feeling passed. He backed away, tripping over the two stairs as he kept his eyes trained on the man in the bed.  
He backed up all the way to the door, where he was met with a cool draft as Bobby opened it, a hand coming to press into Sam’s shoulder. “Boy, what’re you―”  
He stopped speaking as he saw what Sam had seen: the pale skin of Castiel’s shoulders revealed under the blanket. Bobby seemed swayed by the sight as much as Sam was, like he too felt the fallen angel’s pain. The old man took a breath in, releasing it again on a sigh.  
Together, Bobby and Sam crept forward, Sam in Bobby’s shadow. The injured man was somehow captivating, like he carried his heartache as a cloud above him, tendrils reaching out to caress whoever stood by him. Sam felt a lump in his throat, swallowing it down.  
“Get out,” Bobby whispered in his rough voice, gentle hand on his shoulder seeing Sam to the door. “Out, out.” Sam was pushed into the chill of early night, leaning his head against the wood of the door as he tried to collect his thoughts. “This time, stay out,” Bobby warned, as he closed the door to go do what he could for Castiel.  
~  
As soon as he turned, Dean began to run. He didn’t need his nose to follow them, he could have done it without the trail of horse footprints to guide him. He followed his instinct, knowing where to go just by putting one paw in front of the other.  
He was a mindless creature, but he didn’t need his mind to tell him what to do to.  
He followed his heart.  
~  
Bobby finished mixing his herbs, stirring the mortar with the heavy end of the pestle. Lavender - out of season, dried; arnica, fresh fennel.  
He turned to Castiel, seating himself on the edge of the bed before moving to apply the mucky paste liberally around the lodged arrowhead. Blood was caked on it, smeared all over Castiel’s chest. Glistening red flesh and muscle protruded from the opening, worked loose from the day’s riding. Castiel took in shaky breaths, the pain worsening as Bobby touched the broken arrow shaft gently.  
“This is gonna hurt, brace for it,” Bobby advised, lifting a hand to put over Castiel’s eyes. Castiel panted, sweat shimmering on his skin. He swallowed twice, fingers curling into the fur blanket like it was a comfort, thumbs grazing it.  
“You ready?”  
“Just do it,” Castiel said under his breath. He was trembling all over, pain going to fever.  
Bobby measured his hand around the shaft, fingers adjusting their position, getting a good grip. His other hand held Castiel’s eyes closed, feeling hurried breath on his wrist.  
Three.  
~  
Sam waited outside the door, knowing what was happening. He braced himself, expecting to feel the pain right along with Castiel.  
Two.  
~  
Dean pelted through farmland, paw pads scuffed by gritty dirt as he ran.  
The moon was rising, clouds pale in the lower sky. He slowed, tread falling to nothing as he sensed goings on out there, somewhere. He stopped panting for a second, turned his nose to the sky, and howled.  
One.  
~  
Castiel screamed. The arrow wrenched out of his shoulder, taking muscle and sinew and blood with it. His knees folded up into the blanket, fingers tearing fur out of it as he writhed, trying not to move his shoulder. He gasped for breath like a drowning man coming up for air. A tear squeezed from the corner of his eye, running a line down the side of his face and into his hair.  
“I got you, I got you,” Bobby comforted him, slathering the injury with more herbs, just to numb it before he could stitch it up.  
Bobby stroked the man’s forehead with a damp cloth, pleased to see Castiel taking calming breaths. His eyes were still welded shut, mouth set in a grimace of agony.  
“You’ll be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”  
Castiel’s breath gradually eased. Once he was calm enough, Bobby wiped some of the herbs from his shoulder, bloody and mushy. He burned a needle through a candle, taking a horse hair and threading it.  
“Lie back and think of somethin’ pretty,” he muttered, reaching down to knit the flesh back together.  
“I suppose it wouldn’t be inapposite if I wanted to think about Dean,” Castiel whispered, hoarse.  
“Guess not,” Bobby said, spearing the first line of skin, determined to ignore Castiel’s flinch. “So long as he’s wearing all his clothes.”  
Castiel tried very hard not to laugh, instead humming amusement with closed eyes. “That, I cannot vouch for.”  
Bobby sighed with his lips pressed together in concentration, wrapping the line of horse hair around the wound once before sticking it through again. “You boys been okay without me all this time?”  
“I’m sure Dean would insist that we never needed you in the first place.”  
“Hell, we both know that’s a goddamn whopper, don’t we.”  
“Mm-hmm,” Castiel agreed, gritting his teeth as the needle pushed through again, tugging tight.  
“You both know I’m sorry, don’t you,” Bobby continued, quietly.  
“It would have ha-happened anyway, Bobby. You have - ah! - little to be guilty for. Although I have no doubt that Dean disagrees.”  
“To be fair, he was the one being so reckless about it all,” Bobby shrugged, tying off the knot and wiping down the criss-cross of the wound.  
“That’s Dean,” Castiel sighed. Bobby handed him a cupful of water and held his head as he drank. Castiel swallowed, then lay back, exhausted, his eyelids fluttering once before dropping closed. “Carefree as a summer breeze.”  
Bobby snorted and stood up. “That’s one way to describe him, though not words I’d use. Or you, even.” Bobby turned his back, wiping his instruments and hands down with a wet cloth. “By chance, did you pick up sarcasm in all these years away?”  
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Castiel replied, hushed. His voice fell to nothing as he slipped into a feverish slumber.  
Bobby approached him again, a kind expression adorning his face. He looked down at the fallen angel, so peaceful in sleep. He exhaled, brushing the dark hair away from the man's sticky forehead.  
“I’ll never forgive myself, I hope you know that.”  
He watched the sleeping man for a moment, then turned to leave, leaving the candles burning. He bolted the door behind him, sliding the wooden beam down across the arch.  
“How is... he?” Sam asked.  
“Fine as can be expected, I guess,” Bobby replied, his steps slow and tired. He led the kid behind him into the main hall of his castle, the fire already going in the pit. “What’d they call you, boy?”  
“Sam,” Sam said, taking a seat on a stone platform, a few feet away from the fire. The room was built in a circle, rings of stone up in layers every few feet, to halfway up the wall. Sam didn’t know what its purpose was, but it made for good sitting, staring at the fire in the pit at the bottom.  
“Sam, huh? Hm. Take it you know my name,” Bobby grumbled, hopping down towards the pit and throwing the used herbs into the flames, letting them spit and crackle.  
“Father Bobby Singer,” Sam said. “Priest at Zamreer for some time.”  
Bobby climbed back to a middle-level ring and poured Sam and himself a drink. “I ain’t a Father, I never really was. Papers are so easy to fake, once you know what you’re making.”  
“Dean figured as much,” Sam said, taking the metal cup from Bobby and sipping from it. It was some kind of berry wine, quite bitter on the taste buds, but pleasant.  
“Dean spent yesterday telling me the story, of how they met. Him and Castiel.” Saw swallowed a large gulp of wine, staring at the flames and seeing the light multiplied over his vision. “He didn’t tell me Cas was a guy.”  
Bobby shrugged his lip, swigging his drink. “That one’s kind of hard to break to people.”  
“I’d imagine, yeah,” Sam said, grinning gently. “It’s kinda weird though, right? Isn’t it a sin, or something?”  
“Mighty big one, in some people’s books.”  
“But Cas is... was - an angel. Angel of God. He really fell hard, huh?”  
Bobby snorted into his mug. “More ways than one.”  
“You know, he... Dean. He never actually told me anything, beyond really, _really_ wanting to kiss this girl. Guy.” Sam laughed quietly. “It kinda makes sense now, it felt like he was missing out this whole bit...  
“Wait,” he started. “Sorry, I’m just... kinda overwhelmed. So, the hawk - the bird! It’s Cas?”  
“Nail on the head.”  
“But... all right, so Cas is not only a man, but also a bird? And Dean wants to kiss him?”  
Bobby chuckled, reaching for the jug of wine and pouring himself another. “They did a heck of a lot more than kiss, kid.”  
Sam almost blushed, not sure where to look. “Man, this is really freakin’ weird. You’re sure I’m not dreaming?”  
“All of us ask ourselves that at least once a day. I’d get used to it.”  
Sam set his mug down and buried his face in his hands. Outside, the distant howl of a wolf broke into his muddle of thoughts, and he straightened up, hands on his knees.  
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sam said suddenly, puzzle pieces dragging themselves into place. “The wolf, somehow it’s him.”  
Bobby bumped his eyebrows up, drowning his nose in the jug.  
“Jesus,” Sam muttered, hands back over his face, skin hot from the fire.  
“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Bobby grunted, wiping his face with his sleeve. “God, maybe. Death, probably. But the Priestess, she’s the one we’re blamin’.”  
“Dean says he needs to kill her. God, he’s insane,” Sam mumbled into his knees.  
“Don’t judge him so harshly, kid. They’ve been through a lot; he’s lucky he’s still got his head screwed on at all, let alone the right way ‘round.”  
“Is anyone actually going to tell me what’s going on? Because seriously, this?” Sam said, making circular gestures in mid-air, “makes no sense. The prophecy about me escaping from prison―”  
“Oh, that came around all right, then!” Bobby exclaimed, jug of wine wobbling in his fist, his expression jubilant for a moment. He paused, eyes shining as he lowered his jug, smiling oddly at Sam. “Hell, let’s say we’ve all been waiting a long time for this.”  
“But _why?_ To find Death’s whatsit, his ghost object. And what’s this got to do with Dean and Castiel and their messed up love story, huh? And the Priestess?”  
“Kid, let me tell you a story―”  
“No! No more stories! Give it to me straight, in facts, something simple I can actually understand.”  
Bobby nodded decisively. “Five years ago the Priestess found out Dean and her angel were screwing the heck out of each other, and cursed the living daylights out of them. Literally, I guess. At night, Dean Winchester goes by a furry persona, claws and a goddamn tail included. By day, Castiel is that flappy feathery mess we like to call a hawk. They haven’t set eyes on each other’s pretty faces since the night they were exposed.”  
Sam sat there, somewhat shellshocked. “Uh.”  
“Dean thinks killin’ the Priestess is gonna break the curse.”  
“And is it?”  
“If by breaking the curse, you mean damning them to an eternity of wolfish, hawkish existence, then yeah.”  
Sam startled, standing up. “You gotta tell him, you can’t let him―”  
“Calm your ass down, Sam. Sit.” Sam sat, and Bobby lifted up a fresh jug of wine, pouring him a mugful. “I’m plannin’ on telling him when he gets here.”  
“Gets here?”  
“You didn’t put that one together yet?”  
Sam frowned, staring into the fire again. “He gave me his clothes. He’s... gonna run here as a wolf?”  
“I guess he’s following his nose. Wretched things don’t remember being fluffy or fuzzy, wake up all confused every night and morning. Had to explain to them what was goin’ on the first time it happened.”  
“But they trust each other, even as animals? Cas had the wolf following her ar- ...him. Following him around. And Dean can control Cas like any other hawk.”  
“Guess so. Wasn’t like that in my time, they were rather more wild, bitin’ and scratchin’ and hurtin’ each other. Mostly Dean.” Bobby stared at the fire along with Sam, growling under his breath. “Guess trust comes in time.”  
Sam put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands. “These’ve been the weirdest days of my life.”  
“Knowin’ Dean and Castiel? Yeah, I say the same thing every day I spend with them.”  
“You ever get used to it? The curse, and the guy thing? All these stories?”  
Bobby shook his head, downing another mouthful of drink. “Nope.”  
~  
If there was one thing the Priestess hated, it was waiting. And yet, here she was. She’d been informed that Alastair had arrived, but he was nowhere to be seen. She stood with her arms folded, foot tapping.  
As always, she had chosen the passage beneath the castle to meet. This hall was as big as a ballroom, if darker, damper, and more drippy. A draft breezed in from somewhere out of sight, but everything smelt musty, as brown as their surroundings.  
Meg had lit pitch torches in a line all the way from the entrance, but even in the faint glow, there was no movement. Once Alastair turned up, she was having his head.  
A chilling laugh came from the shadows, echoing, and Meg jumped. It was the kind of laugh that meant someone was enjoying themselves, finding a private joke in something.  
“Stand where I can see you, wretch,” she spat.  
“Oh, but there would be no fun in that, would there?” came the returning creak of a voice. God, Meg hated that voice. It felt like nails were scraping the flesh from her spine.  
The Priestess glared into the darkness, seething internally. She would never admit how much this man creeped her out. With a wave of her hand, she lifted the closest torch into the air and caused it to circle outwards, as her eyes swept the area for her minion. With a chill, she found him. He stood, still and silent, in the wash of light, baring an animalistic grin of pointed teeth, curved upward towards his ears. His head was tipped forward slightly, his eyes locked onto the Priestess’.  
“You are a noxious creature, Alastair. If you weren’t the best at what you do, I would have you killed.”  
“Truly the best of compliments, my lady.”  
“Show me what you have.”  
Alastair stepped forward and walked to fetch a torch from the next holder along. Meg kept hers hovering, wobbling in the air a foot from her head. She didn’t like to touch anything down here. Her shoes were going to be thrown away once she got back to her beloved white, clean world.  
Alastair snuck past her, and she turned her nose aside, fearing to breathe the poison that followed him. He held the torch above a heap on the floor, lowering the flame to the ground so it flickered above the mound.  
Ah, this is what she wanted to see. Wolf pelts - twenty or thirty of them.  
She began to separate them, tossing one aside with a simple flick of her fingers. “No, no, no,” she muttered. Her flicks became more frustrated, faster. “You are not doing so well, Alastair; he’s not here.”  
“All of my traps are full, your Grace,” Alastair breathed, right by the Priestess’ ear. She hissed and jerked away, restraining a slap, because then she would have to wash her hand.  
“You are not looking hard enough.”  
“There are more wolves than men, since the plague,” the man whispered, a sick glee in his words. “I have every intention to take the life of each and every one, of course.”  
Meg shook her head and turned away, taking the floating torch with her. “You need to work more specifically. There is a man with the wolf. Pale, pale skin, dark hair. Blue eyes.” She looked down the line of her torches, visualising Castiel’s face in her mind. “He travels by night, only by night. And in the day, there’s a hawk, the same blue eyes. Find the hawk, and by night you will find the wolf. A black wolf. Find the blue-eyed man, and you find the wolf.”  
Alastair narrowed his eyes, the skin of his sunken sockets pulling into itself.  
“I want that wolf dead, Alastair.”  
“Your Grace―”  
“The man. He goes by the name of...” she licked her lips and looked Alastair in the eye, from across the dark hall. “Castiel.”  
Alastair hummed an unpleasant, flat note. Then he smiled, his mouth like a rip in his face. “Find _Castiel_ , kill the wolf that travels with him.”  
“I see you are as smart as you are ugly, Alastair.”  
“Always the kindest, your Grace.”  
“Leave.”  
With a hissing cackle, Alastair left, abandoning the wolf pelts to fester and rot where they lay.  
Meg watched the figure retreat, his skeletal form hobbling into the darkness. Then, she turned and stepped back the other way, farther into the belly of her cave. Pulling three more torches from their brackets, she let them fly some way above her, lighting the shadows in the rest of the underground cavern.  
Fur was piled in heaps - hundreds, thousands of pelts. Their flesh long rotted away, they sank, flattening, into the ground.  
Five years worth of dead wolves, and still no Dean Winchester.  
~  
Sam couldn’t help but stare. The man was a complete mystery, even in sleep. He looked so peaceful. Sam had never seen anyone sleep so calmly. People snored, drooled, snuffled. They tossed and turned, muttered nonsense.  
All Castiel did, was sleep. He looked almost dead, and Sam would would have assumed he was, were it not for the rising and falling chest that meant he was breathing. The man’s breath was shuddering, uncomfortable. He didn’t flinch, though Sam knew he was in pain still. Bobby’s herbs could only do so much for him, and he had bled through his bandages. They were soaked with red, a rose of colour through white, just above his heart. Castiel was lucky, Sam thought. A few inches lower and both the hawk and Castiel himself would be no more.  
Sam shook his head, leaning against the wooden beam behind him and shuffling on the blanket he sat on. Lovers, curses, prophecies, neverending tales of sinners. Sam had stumbled into a world of stories, and had become as lost in them as the others.  
The man in the bed stirred, croaking as he turned his head. His eyelids flickered, then opened, and the blue eyes were set on Sam. Sam tensed, but relaxed when Castiel smiled warmly.  
“You travel with him, don’t you?” Castiel asked, voice pitched low and dry.  
Sam swallowed, nodding. “He rescued me after I escaped from prison.”  
Castiel’s eyes opened wide, in shock or surprise, maybe both. He thought for a moment. “The other night in the forest, you scared my rabbit. You said―” Castiel gasped in pain as he tried to sit up.  
Sam hurried to his feet with a protective hand reaching out. “Don’t move, you’ll start bleeding again.”  
Castiel sighed and slumped back to the bed, eyes closed. Sam fetched a pillow from the end of the bed, touching Castiel’s uninjured bare shoulder gently, helping the other man sit up with the pillow for support. Castiel turned to lean on the wall, head falling back against it with a tired exhale.  
“You told me Dean was telling you the story of how he and I met,” Castiel tried again, taking the bowl of water Sam handed him, taking a sip with shaking hands. “Did he tell you―”  
“He told me about Death’s prophecy. That was where he stopped, actually, because I interrupted.” Sam set the bowl back down and went to sit back down on his blanket. “I didn’t believe him.”  
“You still don’t.”  
“I...” Sam looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know what to believe. Until tonight I didn’t think a man could be an animal. I didn’t think men were...” Castiel looked at him blankly, waiting for the rest of his sentence. “I didn’t know men could be lovers.”  
Castiel’s weary face broke into a soft smile. “How much did he tell you?”  
“He hasn’t gone into details, but... Dean hasn’t even kissed you yet. Bobby says it got more... explicit, as time went on.”  
Castiel didn’t seem to be able to restrain his smile, but there was a hint of a shadow in his eyes, a loss that Sam knew he was feeling. It hurt Castiel to reminisce, when he couldn’t have that feeling any more.  
“Do you want to hear the rest?”  
But Sam was hesitant now. Not only was this a love story, but it was between two men. A story laced with sin and terrible consequences. And somehow, he was a part of it. It was a fearsome prospect.  
“Tell me your name,” Castiel said, softly.  
Sam met his eye, then replied, “Sam.”  
“You have something of Dean about you,” Castiel said, eyes raking Sam’s skinny body, floppy ear-length hair, layer of bristle on his cheeks.  
“I’ve been around him for a whole damn day, he’s bound to rub off a little, right?” Sam flashed a grin.  
Castiel was squinting at him. “Of course. That must be it.”  
“I would - I would like to hear the next part of the story. After the prophecy.”  
Castiel looked into his lap, seemingly pondering what came next.  
“Did Dean ever tell you how much he worried?” Sam asked. “About wanting to kiss you?”  
Castiel huffed a quiet laugh. “He never did, although I suspected. Not at the time, but...” He licked his lips, over the scar there. It ran a line between his lip and his jaw; a pale, stubble-less stripe. “I understood his feelings even less than he did.”  
Sam only looked back, waiting for Castiel to speak. He seemed quite eager to tell the story. For all Sam knew, this might be his one and only chance to let it all out. An open ear, that’s all Sam was doing. It was a favour. Sam smiled, only a small part of him ready to admit he was actually enjoying the story.  
“After Death told us to expect someone from prison... we left to go to the pool in the forest.”  
“Limn’mere,” Sam said.  
“So, Dean was more thorough than I thought.”  
“Tell me everything, won’t you?”  
Castiel rumbled a laugh. “I will.”  
~x~  
“So... we literally have no clue what it could be.”  
“It would seem that way.”  
Dean kicked at a leafy shrub with his boot, hands clenched in fists at his sides. “Could it be a living thing? It could be, like...” he picked up a twig from the grass, “this.”  
“While I’m sure we would know it when we see it, Death said we wouldn’t find it. I trust his judgement.”  
“So we’re not even going to look?”  
Castiel sighed, mouth tense. “It would be a fruitless search. We may as well wait for his prophecy to come true.”  
“You believe that, too?”  
Castiel shook his head in slight bemusement at Dean’s lack of faith. “I have no reason not to.”  
Dean shrugged his bottom lip, sauntering to the middle of the grass and patting Chevy on her neck. “Suit yourself.”  
“Are you still going to look?”  
Dean smirked, looking at the ground. He glanced back at Castiel. “I trust your judgement.”  
Castiel briefly considered the fact that Dean trusted him, a fallen angel largely clueless about the goings-on of the world, over Death. Death, who knew nearly everything it was possible to know, and even more impossible things.  
“You hungry?” Dean asked, reaching for the picnic basket.  
“We only just ate,” Castiel replied with a frown. “You cannot be hungry again, you are simply enjoying the thought of eating food rather than actually listening to your body’s needs.”  
Dean peered into the basket hopefully, but accepted Castiel’s words. “Smart-ass.” He closed the lid again. “So what’dya wanna do then?” he asked, turning back to Castiel. Castiel looked him up and down, seeing him looking back eagerly. He wasn’t able to know what he wanted by himself?  
“You could always teach me something,” Castiel suggested. “There is near-enough a world of things I have yet to learn.” Dean’s green eyes brightened. “Do you have something in mind?”  
“I do, actually,” Dean grinned, turning back to his horse, pushing Lucifer out of the way, then unhooking his crossbow from Chevy’s side. “I was kinda waiting for you to ask,” he said, head lowered as he examined the black wooden shape in his hands. “And, eh, now’s a good a time as any.”  
“I have never discharged a weapon before,” Castiel said, eyes on the curve of wood that crossed the straight part, a firm wire connecting the edges with the middle of the straight.  
Dean laughed, thrusting the heavy thing into Castiel’s unsure hands. “I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”  
“What do you think it means?” Castiel asked with some confusion. Why did Dean always give half-answers, with something implied behind his words that Castiel never quite understood? It was like he did it on purpose.  
“Innuendo, man,” Dean muttered, pulling an arrow from the quiver in his saddlebag. “You know, _discharged_ ,” Dean said, waving an airy hand away from himself with a pointed look, “your _weapon_...” He pointed the same hand to his lower half, and Castiel followed the gesture with a mounting frown.  
Dean set his jaw. “Orgasm, dude.”  
Castiel felt his eyes fall wide open as he realised. “Oh - _oh_ \- you mean, my member is my weapon.”  
Dean’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times. “Pff, nobody calls it that,” he murmured, turning away. He seemed to be embarrassed, as a slight blush was creeping up his neck. He stared at the leafy green canopy above them for a second, took a calming breath, then turned back to Castiel. He showed Castiel how to load the crossbow without a word, then removed the arrow again.  
“Keep your fingers out of the way when you hold it up,” Dean said finally, shouldering the crossbow, demonstrating to Castiel. “Here, take it,” he said, handing it over and letting Castiel test its weight up against his shoulder like Dean had done. Dean went back to the picnic basket and withdrew a red apple, glancing around Limn’mere’s lightly-shaded clearing before picking a forked tree branch, a crook that he could place the apple in.  
“There, aim at that.” He picked his way back to Castiel and stood behind him, an arm’s length away.  
Castiel loaded up the arrow into the bow. “How do I shoot?” he asked, turning back to Dean.  
Dean’s face scrunched up as he tried not to laugh or wail in despair, Castiel wasn’t sure which. “God, here, let me show you.” He removed the crossbow from Castiel’s hands and glanced at him a few times as they stood side-by-side. “You watching?”  
“Yes.”  
Dean pulled a trigger, and with a swish of air, the arrow was launched straight into the heart of the balanced apple, piercing it and knocking it to the ground. Castiel went to investigate, finding the fruit split clean in half, the slightly sticky arrow lying on the grass behind the tree.  
“You are a very good shot,” Castiel remarked, bringing the arrow back to Dean once he’d replaced a half-apple on the tree branch.  
“Comes with years of practice, and a friggin’ easy-as-hell shot.”  
“May I try?”  
Dean handed him the crossbow and let him load it himself, only darting forward once when Castiel’s hand was over the wire, stepping back again when his fingers shuffled safely underneath.  
Castiel pressed the thick edge of the cross to his cheek, one eye closed as he tried to see what he would hit. When the point of the arrow was aimed at the apple, he pulled the trigger.  
“You’re as bad as Christian, man.”  
“I missed?” Castiel dropped the bow to his side, shoulders slumped.  
“I gotta say it, your weapon discharge needs some work, Cas,” Dean said with a wink. Castiel wasn’t sure what the wink meant, but he liked the mental image that Dean was purposefully conjuring for him. Dean dropped his gaze before he began to blush, but Castiel knew he’d been right on the verge of it. Whenever Castiel stared at him for too long, Dean’s cheeks coloured a very subtle pink. He wasn’t even sure if Dean was aware of it.  
“I’ll get the arrow, be right back,” Dean said, brushing past and crossing the grassy area, then disappearing into the leaves beyond the crooked tree.  
Castiel examined the crossbow in his hands. It was a pleasing weight, heavy enough to be a real threat, light enough to be portable. The wood of the tiller was smooth, sanded down and unpolished, but shiny from years of being pressed to Dean’s cheek. Castiel rubbed a finger over it gently, tempted to search into its past, to see all the times Dean had ever released an arrow. He’d like to see all the times Dean missed, to see the first time he hit something, to feel what he felt.  
But he resisted, because he’d promised Dean. Castiel was absolutely sure that Dean hadn’t realised how much he used his power usually. Dean only ever saw the big, flashy things. But Castiel missed finding out the tiniest snippets of history, from almost everything he touched. He loved the stories; there was nothing all that interesting inside the library.  
His favourite so far had been watching the birth of Dean’s beloved horse in his mind’s eye, then seeing the first time Dean had ridden her, and feeling that complete and utter connection, the bond between them. She was very loved, Castiel could tell. He had never felt that warm inside.  
No, that was a lie. He felt that way when Dean looked at him. But he wasn’t sure if that was his own love, or Dean’s love for him. Castiel refused to intrude on Dean’s feelings, to search out his history. Despite being unsocialised for his entire life, he knew there was a line there.  
But, oh, how he longed to look inside him, to find out how Dean felt about him. To be able to read him like he could read his horse, to know what his jokes meant, what his lingering looks meant. And what it meant when he kept on looking at Castiel when his back was turned. No other person had ever looked at Castiel like that. There was no denying, Castiel enjoyed it. Very, very much.  
“Dude, come here,” Dean whispered from the edge of the clearing, torso poking through the wall of leaves. “Quick!”  
Castiel blinked, setting the crossbow gently on the grass before going to see what Dean had to show him. He beckoned eagerly, and Castiel followed him into the whip of leaves, pushing aside branches. He kept his eye on the black leather in front of him, and they came out in another clearing, this one without grass, but just as awash with dappled sunlight. Thick-trunked trees were dotted ahead, branches low and leaves dangling above their heads. Dean kept moving, knees bent, walking in a solid-footed tiptoe. Castiel followed his lead, not daring to speak.  
Dean pulled up behind a massive tree, hand braced against it as he peered around it. Castiel settled behind him, fingertips on Dean’s shoulders, looking at him questioningly.  
“Look,” Dean said under his breath. He pointed around the tree. Castiel crept forward to look, palm flat on the trunk.  
He couldn’t help but gasp in wonder, then bit his own lip to keep his excited laugh inside. He looked back to Dean’s smiling face, appreciating his thought to show him this.  
Two deer stood beside each other on the forest floor, one male, one female. The male, Castiel knew from his books, was the one with rounded tree-branch-like antlers growing from his head, the female the same shape, but a softer tawny colour, no antlers. Their noses wriggled, as tender as Chevy or Lucifer’s. They didn’t know Dean or Castiel stood there, watching them. Well, Castiel was watching them. Dean was watching Castiel.  
Castiel’s eyes stayed transfixed as he studied the creatures, their gentle movements, seemingly without purpose. They didn’t have food here, and they weren’t walking anywhere. Possibly they were simply having a conversation.  
“They are very beautiful,” Castiel whispered to Dean, beaming. Dean nodded, sidling around the tree to watch by Castiel’s side.  
The male stepped backward, nose sniffing along the female’s side. Castiel trembled with awe, a hand slipping down Dean’s arm, wrapped around his sleeve. He wanted nothing more than to tell Dean how much amazement he was feeling, the extreme thrill of finding something new. Something Dean showed him. Somehow, that just made it even more special.  
“Oh,” Dean said, voice lowered. Castiel looked back to the deer, seeing the male climbing on top of the other.  
“He’ll squash her!” Castiel exclaimed, as hushed as possible.  
“No, he won’t - she’s fine, look,” Dean said, holding Castiel back, like he knew he’d been about to go and rescue the smaller deer. As they watched, the male began to move atop the other’s back, back feet still on the ground.  
“What are they doing?” Castiel asked, wonderment still bubbling in him. He’d never seen anything like this.  
Dean almost coughed, staring at Castiel with shock on his face.  
“What?” Castiel queried, frowning.  
Dean took Castiel by the arm and dragged him back to Limn’mere’s grass, treading on the half-apple in his hurry.  
“How can you not know what they’re doing, Cas?” Dean asked, his tone almost... concerned.  
“I have never seen a deer in my life, how can I know?” Castiel was getting very confused, very quickly. Did Dean expect him to know everything?  
“They’re _mating_ , Cas!”  
Castiel took in Dean’s demeanour, leaning forward slightly, hands open to the sides, in a gesture that said ‘you should know this, it’s obvious’.  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah, _oh_.”  
“Why was he moving like that?” Castiel asked. It was a reasonable question, so he wasn’t expecting the stunned, gaping expression that Dean responded with.  
“Jesus, Cas, have you never―”  
“I have never mated before.”  
Dean took in a short, interrupted breath, “Yeah, well, I knew that, I figured...”  
Castiel refused to feel ashamed for this fact. He stood his ground, lips set in a line. His eyes, however, he couldn’t keep from roaming Dean’s face, trying to decipher whatever Dean wasn’t stating outright.  
“I thought you’d at least, y’know...”  
“Dean, please stop feeling so embarrassed, and just tell me what you’re trying to say.”  
“I’m not embarr- It’s perfectly natural, it’s not―”  
“Dean, _speak_.”  
Dean took in a slow breath, mouth open. “You jerk off, right?”  
“Jerk?”  
Dean’s mouth lurched open again, frown creasing his forehead. “Oh God, I can’t believe I’m going to do this...” He put a hand at his crotch and mimed a shaky up-down movement with a loose fist, then dropped his hand and clutched it tightly at his side.  
Castiel held his gaze and shook his head, slowly. “I don’t know what that gesture means.”  
Dean looked very upset about this, for some reason. “You’ve never touched yourself?”  
“I have?” Castiel swallowed. “But...” he repeated Dean’s action in mid-air, “not like that.”  
Dean gulped a couple of times, steeling himself for his question: “Uh, so, how do you...?”  
Castiel’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hips, examining the crotch of his trousers for a moment before answering the question. “Touching, mostly,” he said, eyes back on Dean’s. “Stroking. Squeezing?” He wasn’t sure what Dean wanted to know, exactly.  
“Uh... huh. Okay then,” Dean muttered, apparently very relieved. “Next time, Cas?” he started, taking a step closer and looking Castiel in the eye once more, “try it like this, okay?” He mimed the movement again, and Castiel’s hand at his side curled like Dean’s, memorising the loose fist. He nodded.  
Dean turned his eyes to the pool and the waterfall, letting out a breath through the narrow ‘o’ of his lips. He was shaking his head as he walked away, radiating perturbation.  
“Are - are we done with the crossbow?”  
Dean put a hand to his head, thumb and fingers massaging his temples. “Just for today; we’ll get back to it some other time.”  
Castiel stood and watched Dean’s discomfort slowly abate. “Why do you keep getting so embarrassed, Dean?” he asked.  
Dean looked up at him, eyes jumping to his lips before meeting his gaze. “It’s just weird, you know?”  
“I don’t know.” Castiel praised his own patience. One day, Dean would realise that Castiel didn’t know as much as he did, despite being thousands of times more well-read.  
“The whole, talking about this stuff. Thing.”  
“About sex?”  
Dean winced. “Yeah.”  
“Because I’m male.”  
Dean didn’t close his eyes like Castiel was expecting, but looked out over the rippling water of the pool, watching the sun dance on its mirror surface. It was as peaceful as ever, not nearly as scary as it had seemed last night when they shared the place with so many spirits.  
“Sex is weird to talk about any time, Cas. But, yeah. It’s stranger ‘cause you’re a guy.”  
Neither of them moved for a long moment, Dean’s eyes on the pool, Castiel’s on Dean. Dean knew he was watching him, but made no move to discourage him.  
“Dean...” Castiel started, blinking a few times. He felt like he might regret where his thoughts were going to take him. “If I were a woman, would you feel differently about me?”  
Dean’s gaze snapped to Castiel’s at the speed at which his arrow had split the apple. “Why do you ask that?”  
Castiel licked his lips. “You become the most uncomfortable when we are having an intimate moment―”  
“― _Intimate_ ―”  
“―and you realise that I am not a woman. And our behaviour, as two males, is inappropriate, amongst the society of other people.”  
Dean said nothing now, but stared at Castiel as he talked.  
“Even when we are alone, you... seem to hold yourself back. Is it intimacy you fear, or...” Castiel swallowed, “the fact that I am male?”  
“I don’t _fear_ you being a guy, Cas.”  
“You fear what other people would think, and you cannot bear the thought of the consequences.”  
“I don’t need you to analyse me, Cas. I don’t want anything from you, we’re not intim―”  
“Don’t get angry, Dean. Please.”  
Dean gulped, metaphorically lowering his hackles and sitting on his tail.  
“The prince, in your story,” Castiel began again. “He only falls in love with the frog when it becomes a woman, a princess. Until then, he finds it repulsive, and he would never think of being friendly to it, or intimate, or kissing it―”  
“That’s because frogs are gross,” Dean interjected, trying to find pockets to stick his hands in, and finding only armour buckles. He hooked his hands over his hips instead but found it uncomfortable, then settled for just wringing his hands by his sides.  
“What if I never become a princess, Dean?”  
Dean looked Castiel in the eye then and, baffled, asked, “What?”  
“As a male, I am, to you, a frog. You’re always going to be stuck with a frog. My vessel is male, I can’t change that. I have never known anything except the male mind, I think and feel and move as a male. I cannot be anything else.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Cas, what’re you on about? You’re not a frog, you’re a person.”  
“If I were myself, but in your position, I would kiss a frog. I would kiss a thousand frogs, if only one of them would turn into my prince. Into you.”  
“Cas, what the hell... That’s a crazy thing to say, that doesn’t even make sense. It’s all stories, Cas! There are no princes, not like that. Kissing frogs won’t get you a princess, or - for whatever reason you seem to want, a prince―”  
Castiel stepped forward, voice strained with building intensity. “Do you want to know what I wished for, Dean? When you handed me your wish from the falling star?”  
“Try me,” Dean challenged, with a slight eye roll and an open shrug, fingers spread.  
Castiel swallowed. “Every day before I met you, I prayed for freedom - I prayed I could escape from the castle, that I could see beyond the walls that held me. My prayer was answered, in you.  
“Then, I wanted to pray, I wanted to ask for what I craved, the thing I realised I wanted so very badly... But I couldn’t pray to God, not for something that was close enough to mortal sin.”  
He took a shuddering breath, gaze firm on Dean as the other man’s focus jumped between Castiel’s eyes. “So, I wished. I wished with all of my being. I _wished_ , that you would kiss me. A kiss, that was all I wanted. And then you said you would wish that my wish came true―”  
“Cas, why are you telling me this?” Dean interrupted, head shaking slightly.  
“Because I no longer have any hope of my wish coming true!” Castiel shouted, stepping forward as Dean held his ground, eyes looking Castiel up and down quickly. “It’s clear that you don’t see me like that, you don’t want me, not in that way. You could never feel something for another man in the same way I do―”  
He didn’t even see Dean stepping forward, he didn’t hear the rustle of his clothes as they were pulled into desperate hands; he didn’t feel the press on his lips until his mouth was already open, kissing back.  
Castiel blinked, hand automatically pressing on the side of Dean’s neck, head tilted to nudge upward into the heat that enveloped him, that strange feeling that was another pair of lips, rubbing and mouthing against his own. He could hear the quiet wet click as they smacked together, gently breaking apart before Dean nosed forward to roll into him again. He heard and felt a soft moan, and Castiel realised it was him, coming from deep in his throat, unwillingly released.  
A groan, as soft as a sigh, washed against Castiel's cheek as Dean exhaled, turning his head again. Dean’s hand was in Castiel’s hair, fingers spread, raking between his dark strands. His entire body was pressed up to Castiel’s, and Castiel only then noticed that his own hand, the one not on Dean’s neck, was curled around his lower back, pulling them tight together.  
Castiel kept his eyes closed now. The sight of Dean’s freckles so close up was burned into his mind. He nudged his chin upward, knocking at Dean’s nose with his own.  
“Mhhcas,” Dean whispered, voice thick with heat.  
“Cas,” he repeated, breathy this time. Castiel responded by pressing another fierce kiss on his lips, hands both in Dean’s hair now. He sighed into it, loving the feel of pokey stubble brushing his lower lip as he dragged it to meet with Dean’s.  
“Cas―”  
“Mm,” Castiel moaned, eyelashes dancing on Dean’s cheek.  
“Cas, _stop_ ,” Dean said, shoving Castiel away. He had a hand pressed to his own face, wiping his mouth. The other hand was held between him and Castiel, like a barrier.  
“Dean... _Dean!_ ” Castiel said, realising Dean was walking away.  
“Just... stop,” Dean demanded, turning back to still Castiel in his tracks. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, but there was fear there. Castiel knew he’d been right, he knew how scared Dean really was.  
Dean spun on his heel and ran to his horse, climbing up and pushing her to a fast trot. Castiel only started forward with an arm outstretched, hoping to pull Dean back through thin air. But there he went, leaving Castiel alone.  
Castiel closed his eyes, feeling chilled at Dean’s missing presence. He couldn’t work out how badly he’d ruined everything. On the one hand, he had just kissed Dean. Kissed him, on the mouth, with some fervour. On the other, he had just driven away the best friend he’d ever had, the only one who could show him the wonders the world had to offer. The one, Castiel only now realised, that he didn’t need to kiss in order to love.  
Because he did. He loved Dean. More than he had ever been sure of anything, he was sure of this.  
He would have been content to bask in Dean’s company, never responded to in the way he had been so desperate for; never kissed. He could have been unloved, and that would have been all he ever needed.  
But now, he had nothing. No love, no Dean. Alone again.  
Castiel let out a stuttering keen, scrunching his eyes up. Everything was broken.  
“What’ve I done?” he whispered, hand over his mouth. He could still feel the tingle of lips on his, the sting of stubble. The wetness of Dean’s tongue as it had tasted him.  
Castiel released a stubborn breath, grinding his teeth. He would go after him, he would apologise. He needed to fix this, as soon as possible.  
He ran to the dock, around the pool, kicking up sand under his bare feet. He swiped the chilly leather boots that lay abandoned on the wooden planks. Dean had left them there last night, frightened away by the ghosts. Now, Castiel could take them back to him. A peace offering, however small.  
Sprinting back, Castiel leapt up onto Lucifer’s back, leaving the picnic basket on the grass. As he tugged Lucifer to a hurried trot, he slipped the boots into his saddlebag. As soon as they reached thinner forest, Castiel nudged him into a canter, urging him to catch up with Dean. Dean’s horse was faster; if he’d galloped back, Castiel would never catch him.  
He could see the stir of woodland floor, where Dean had passed; freshly broken twigs, hoof prints in the softer earth. It was subtle, and difficult to discern where Dean had only passed now, and where the trail had been left from earlier visits to Limn’mere.  
But Castiel was finding it easier to navigate, knowing the path already, seeing the pattern of horse prints. Dean wasn’t going too quickly, he was still in Castiel’s reach.  
Castiel urged Lucifer to go faster, but he got no response.  
“Come on, Lucifer. I need to find him,” Castiel gasped, getting a neigh in reply, and no change in pace. “Please, I need to tell him I didn’t mean to. It was a mistake, it wasn’t―”  
Lucifer snorted and deliberately slowed down.  
“Lucifer!”  
Lucifer whinnied, snorting again. He flicked Castiel on the back with his long tail.  
“I only kissed him because the conversation led us that way, it wasn’t meant to scare him - _ow!_ ”  
Lucifer nickered annoyedly, and came to a full standstill. Seething, Castiel dismounted and went to stare him in the eye.  
“Why are you doing this to me? I have ruined everything, and you’re stopping me from fixing―”  
Lucifer bared his teeth at Castiel, huffing hotly in his face. _You are an idiot, did you know that?_  
“Oh, so now you’re going to insult me?” Castiel spat, a moment away from slapping Lucifer on the cheek.  
 _He kissed_ you _, in case it escaped your notice._  
“So? I basically _told_ him to, it was all my doing, everything that happened, it was my fault...”  
 _If someone told you to kiss a woman, you would do it?_  
Castiel blanched. “I would not.”  
 _You ‘told’ Dean to kiss you, and he did it?_  
Castiel huffed, rolling his eyes to the trees above. “It wasn’t like that, I was―” Castiel paused and bit the back of his lip. “He... kissed me? He wanted to kiss me?”  
 _And there you have it, O sweet, sweet brother of mine. Sometimes I wonder how you can be just as dense as Dean. It must be a human thing._  
“He _wanted_ to kiss me?” Castiel repeated, tangling a hand in Lucifer’s reins to ground himself before he fell over. “I... can’t...”  
 _Get on my back, before I bite you._  
Castiel didn’t need telling twice. As soon as he was settled, Lucifer veered off the track, off to the left, heading into thick undergrowth. “Where are you going?” Castiel asked, but didn’t correct the horse.  
They pulled through into another part of the forest, much the same as where they’d been before, and Castiel could feel his sense of direction losing itself among the trees. Lucifer galloped, so sure of his course; Castiel only grasped the reins and held on tight.  
It was only a few minutes before Castiel saw a black shape up ahead, Chevy and her rider walking slowly through beams of sunlight, alternately a bright brown, then a deep black in the shadow.  
Lucifer slowed as they caught up, matching their pace a short way behind. Castiel dismounted, striding up to Chevy’s left flank and touching her with an open hand.  
“I have your boots,” he said.  
“Thanks,” Dean replied, his voice devoid of tone.  
There was a long moment of silence.  
Castiel took in a breath. “I’m sorry I―”  
Lucifer whinnied, stomping a foot.  
“―I’m sorry I led our conversation in that direction,” Castiel forced out. “Clearly you weren’t comfortable with its outcome.”  
“Clearly.”  
Castiel studied the forest floor as he walked beside Chevy, Dean not looking at him. “I... didn’t realise you felt the same way about me. Had I known, I would have been far more tactful about it.”  
Dean coughed a laugh. “I don’t feel the same way about you.”  
Castiel looked back to see Lucifer rolling his neck, as close to an eye-roll as a horse could get. “I thought... you...”  
“It was stupid, Cas. It was one of those heat-of-the-moment things. As in, never to be repeated. You got your wish, right? One kiss.”  
Castiel swallowed, watching his feet cover the peat under his steps. “Yes.”  
“Then that’s it, then.”  
Castiel looked up at him. “Are we still friends?”  
Dean looked in the other direction, head turned far away from Castiel. “You remember what I said about my servants, about changing my sheets, after...?”  
“You said it was awkward. After sharing that passion, you found it impossible to see them... again...” Castiel inhaled a silent gasp. Was that what he’d become? Another moment in Dean’s life, tossed aside to avoid awkwardness?  
Dean said nothing.  
“It doesn’t have to be awkward, Dean,” Castiel pleaded. He regretted everything. He should never have said anything. It would be easier to have never met Dean at all, to never have felt this way for him.  
“It’s always awkward, Cas. This stuff never keeps up, it’s gone straight away. You get what you want from the other person and then you sneak out, and you never see them again.”  
“Is that how it was with you and Cassie?”  
Dean looked down at his hands, clasped around Chevy’s reins. “Cassie was different.”  
“How so?”  
Dean frowned and shook his head briskly, teeth gritted. “When you’re in love with someone, it doesn’t end so quickly. It just... keeps up. You want it, again, and again, you never want it to end.”  
“I never want it to end!” Castiel burst out, hand on Chevy’s side curling and uncurling. “I want to see you, I don’t want it to stop!”  
Dean huffed, pulled Chevy to a halt, and threw himself to his feet, shoulders squared and stance solid in front of Castiel. “You only want to see me because I let you outside of the castle, Cas. I know you well enough, I know what you really want.”  
“You hardly know me at all then, because―”  
“If it were someone else, anyone else, you’d feel the same way, I’d guarantee it. You’re confused, Cas. You don’t know enough about being human. I know when someone’s in _love_ , and this isn’t it.”  
“Your love for Cassie died!”  
“So what? Everything ends!”  
“And our friendship is ending now? Just like this?”  
“Looks like,” Dean snorted, grimacing at Castiel.  
“It’s not its time, Dean, please. It’s not over yet.”  
“It’s over when I say it’s over, and this is me, saying it’s over.”  
“Dean―”  
“Leave me alone, Cas. I don’t want to see you.” He got on his horse and steered her toward the castle, cutting through trees roughly, their branches whipping back behind him.  
Castiel felt his heart break, right there.  
~  
Castiel spent the rest of the day at Limn’mere by himself. There was nothing else to do; the Priestess was away from the city for today, and he may as well enjoy it. Alas, enjoyment was not what he got from his stay.  
He swam for some time, not even sure if tears were escaping his eyes, as any that escaped would have been washed away by the water. He stood at the poolside, half-clothed, throwing rocks into the pool and seeing the tower of liquid that the splash built. He liked the rocks that made a clunking noise as they were swallowed under the surface; it felt like his whole being was sinking with them, and he wouldn’t have to worry about what was happening above ground any more.  
But as soon as the surface smoothed over again, the clench was back in his chest, and he realised he had to go back, at some point.  
But what would happen? What would happen if he stayed here, never went back? Surely the Priestess would never find him, not without enlisting the help of another angel. Which she would do, of course she would.  
Castiel toyed with the idea - a fantasy - that Dean would ride out here first, to warn him of the Priestess’ anger, that he was sorry, he didn’t mean any of the words he’d said in anger. That he and Castiel could ride off together, away from the city; take their freedom. None of Dean’s responsibility had to follow, nothing of Castiel’s cage. The two of them, alone, together, travelling the world. And Dean would kiss Castiel, he would. He would lean across between their horses and he would press their lips together, smiling against him.  
Castiel threw a rock so sharply it cut through the water without a splash, shot straight to the bottom. He snorted and sat down abruptly on the bank of grass that overhung one section of the pool. He kicked the surface with his toes, chin in his cupped palm.  
It must be an hour until sundown, now. The air was becoming cooler, heavier, as the dust of the day settled. Castiel looked forward to summer. He loved summer, he loved the heat, and how effortlessly he could spend his time, not having to find places to read that were warmer, not having to start a fire in his room. Only yesterday he had considered how much more he was looking forward to summer, now that he had Dean to spend his time with. The things they could do together were near endless. Of course, they were always going to be focused on Limn’mere. They had the whole world to explore, but they would always stay here. Like Dean had said to Pamela, Limn’mere was _their_ place. Dean and Castiel’s. No-one else’s. They had no reason to be anywhere else.  
But now, Castiel had to leave. He’d been putting off the feeling all day, forcing it from his mind: without Dean, he wasn’t welcome here. This was first and foremost, Dean’s place of tranquillity. By bringing Castiel here, he’d brought with him all of Castiel’s problems, the cage that followed him. Being here alone, all Castiel was doing was sitting in his cage, right in the middle of Dean’s peace. It was rude.  
Besides, Castiel knew that by night, this place belonged to the ghosts that roamed here. He still felt a shiver of fear as he thought of them. They were as trapped here as he was in the castle. Until Death was freed, they would be prisoners. Death’s lost object was to them, what Dean was to Castiel: freedom.  
Castiel put his head in his hands and held back a sob that threatened to overtake him. Dean was so much more than freedom. Dean himself hadn’t believed it, but to Castiel, Dean was _everything_.  
With a guttural cry, Castiel threw the last of his rocks into the depths of the pool, disturbing its shimmer for a final time, before standing up, heaving a breath, then going to get dressed and heading back to the castle.  
~  
There were so many other places in the castle that Castiel could be right now - he could go to his room, sleep away his problems, and wake up to find it was all a terrible dream; the kitchen, ask Missouri why being a human was so confusing; the garret, look down upon the world and imagine his problems being as small as all of the people that were lost in the distance, from the sheer height of the building.  
But here he was, in the library. Death wasn’t here, he’d probably found someplace better to be. The lights were off, the only light coming from the windows that arched all the way along the front wall, laced in lead, right up to the ceiling. The sky was somewhere between pink and purple - orange on the horizon, merging with a deeper colour where the sunset hit the mountains on the far side.  
Castiel stepped on the wooden block in front of his favourite window, the one that overlooked the Guard training yard. He unhooked the latch and let it swing open, settling on the stone sill, back against the window frame with one leg crooked, bare foot braced against the other side. He always sat like this, unless the situation called for otherwise. When he watched Dean’s fight against Raphael, his nerves had kept him on edge, and he’d sat with both feet outside, pressed on the castle wall, hands curled into the sill.  
Now, he released a tiny sigh, seeing but a single person in the courtyard on a Sunday night. Dean Winchester. Castiel was unsurprised.  
The glow of the sunset fell to an orange-purple, most of the light in Castiel’s eyes as the sun glimmered low at the edge of the world. He raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the light as he watched the black figure below kicking up dust.  
Dean was fighting an invisible enemy, practising with his sword. He swung it deliberately, forcefully. Over his head, a swipe downward, a step forward to stab his enemy in the stomach. He was so precise with his movements, Castiel supposed he was visualising a battle plan for both himself and his attackers.  
He seemed angry, though. As he watched, Dean’s jabs got faster and rougher. His hand started to wobble, footsteps in the sand growing less decided as he nearly lost his balance a few times. Castiel heard his grunts of exertion drifting up from the courtyard, occasionally hearing a shout of frustration for no reason related to his wavering grip. Once he only swung his sword in a circle around him, growling to himself.  
He never looked up, and never saw Castiel watching him. Castiel considered leaving, but... he didn’t want to. He wanted to see this to the end. It felt like Dean’s frustration was his own, and every swipe of his weapon was as stress-relieving for Castiel as it hopefully was for Dean.  
Dean stepped swiftly across the courtyard, heading for the back wall opposite from the castle, a brown water-rounded stone wall, ivy climbing over the top. In front of it was a wooden three-legged target board, a set of arrows stuck from it in the centre. Dean tested the weight of his sword, and Castiel thought he was going to stab the target, but then he took a step closer and cut through the arrow shafts, letting them scatter on the ground.  
Then he took at the board, hacking once at its top and having to kick it to withdraw his embedded blade; he didn’t stop, he swung again, again, cutting and slashing at it, scratching at the paint on its front, knocking the last of the arrowheads into the dust with their disembodied shafts. The target board lost a leg, then split with a crack that Castiel heard clearly; one entire third of it tumbled down, part of the coloured circle face-down in the sand.  
Dean’s yells of outrage still made it to Castiel’s ears, and although Castiel wasn’t sure what he was angry at, exactly, he felt like yelling right along with him, taking up a sword of his own and swinging just as violently at the board.  
He wanted to destroy the things he felt - that loss, the longing. The way Dean made him feel, because it hurt when Dean didn’t feel it too. He wanted to stab the want that sat low in his belly when Dean smiled at him for a second too long; the swirl and the twist inside him when Dean’s eyelids flickered, when his tongue went out to lick his lips. It was bad, and it was wrong, and Dean didn’t want it. So Castiel couldn’t let himself want it.  
With a final exclamation, Dean took a fierce step away from the board, making to leave, stalking a few paces away. Then he stopped, and without looking back, twisted and flung his sword as true as his crossbow arrow, right to the centre of the target board’s remains.  
Castiel jumped as it hit, almost falling from his window. He clasped the frame tightly, realising he’d been holding on already, and his knuckles were white and cold from the extended pressure. He eased them off, curling them in his lap as he watched Dean bend to retrieve his sword. It was Sabbath, not Wendigo, that he’d been using. Something in that made Castiel feel very strange. Good or bad, he was unsure.  
And then, his stomach and then his heart lurched, when he found himself looking directly at Dean from across the courtyard. Dean stood there with his sword in hand, ready to sheath it, and had spotted Castiel on the ledge. Castiel could not move, only look back, waves of emotion simmering indescribably below his shoulders.  
Completely unexpectedly, Dean lifted his hand to wave. Castiel didn’t know what to do. He waved back, only raising his open hand in a small salute before putting it back in his lap.  
Dean seemed to smile.  
Maybe he was imagining it, but to Castiel, Dean looked a right sight lighter on his feet than he had a minute ago, as he lowered his head and made his way out of the courtyard. Castiel waited until he was out of sight before slipping back into the library and closing the window.  
He stood looking out at the falling night through the glass. What now?  
~  
Once night had fallen, Castiel had to be more careful about who saw him sneaking around. There were rarely people who both knew who he was, and cared that he was out of bounds, but if the Priestess ever got wind that he was headed for the kitchens, it was unlikely to end well.  
Missouri had what she called an ‘open door policy’, which, apparently meant that the kitchen was destined to be drafty at all hours of the day or night.  
Castiel had been sure they’d packed up for today, since all the meals were done with, and the kitchen staff would have an early start tomorrow, as always. They were the few people who had to work on Sundays. As cooks, that is. Their jobs as psychics, however - they couldn’t turn that off.  
That was how they knew he was coming, Castiel discerned. Candles burned at the back of the room, lighting the table in the corner and the surrounding area. As Castiel stepped into the door, he was waved over by Missouri, who was as cheerful as ever. Pamela had her feet up on the table by her side, grinning at Castiel as he got closer. There was someone else there too, not at the table, but in the kitchen. The young man named Andy, Castiel remembered. He had never seemed much good at cooking, but perhaps he was a promising psychic. The kitchen tended to attract that sort of crowd.  
“Take a seat, honey,” Missouri said, pulling him out the third chair as she took her own. Castiel nodded to her and sat, hands in his lap. Missouri held out a palm to him, and he hovered his hand over the table for a moment before placing his wrist in her gentle grasp.  
“Goodness,” she said, slowly.  
“What is it this time,” Pamela intoned, pulling her boots off the table and leaning forward on her elbows instead.  
“Castiel here is having a bit of heart trouble,” Missouri sighed, withdrawing her hands.  
“Is he sick?” Andy asked, peeking his head curiously into the kitchen aisle, attention diverted from the cookbook he was pretending to read.  
“Not in the way you’d think, but yes.”  
Pamela got up to shove Andy away, trying to get him to pay attention to what he was supposed to be doing. Missouri waited until she fell back into her chair before continuing.  
“Only one type of medicine for this one, hon.”  
Castiel looked down at his hand, curled loosely on the table. “There is nothing I can provide myself, is there?”  
Missouri smiled kindly, petting Castiel’s hand. “Give him time, he’ll come around. Maybe sooner than you think.”  
“Why is it so necessary for me to feel his acceptance? Why do I feel like I _need_ him? I never needed him to be happy before, why do I need him now?”  
“Sometimes there’s a hole that we never knew was empty until someone fills it.”  
Castiel shook his head. “Dean hasn’t filled any holes. Not even―” he glanced up as he caught his own innuendo. Dean’s instruction seemed to be creeping into him like a strange virus. “Not like that, I didn’t mean―”  
Pamela snorted, feet swinging back up on the tabletop. “Sure you’d like that though, wouldn’t you?”  
“As Dean is quick to point out, I am not a girl. I don’t think... men aren’t like women?”  
“Well spotted, babe,” Pamela grunted, grinning.  
“Aw,” Missouri said to her, shaking her head slightly. “Go easy on him, he’s new.”  
Castiel looked helplessly between the two of them. “I don’t understand, I don’t have a... hole...”  
Pamela slapped a hand over his mouth and tried very hard not to laugh. Missouri hummed, eyes pressed closed and crinkled at the sides.  
“You don’t need all the fancy stuff to feel good, Castiel,” Missouri said gently, hand cupping Castiel’s on the table. “You’ll work out what to do when you get there.”  
Castiel felt his resolve crumbling. “There is nowhere to get _to_. He doesn’t want to see me.”  
“Patience, child.”  
“I’m not a child,” Castiel retorted, pulling his hand away.  
“Figure of speech, Castiel,” Missouri said, not reprimanding him at all for his upset. “You have my respect as both an adult and as a higher being.”  
“I’m no better than you, not while I cannot use my power.”  
“Maybe so, but you are no less a person. Never feel like you are dirt beneath someone’s shoes, you are and always will be better than that. Some of your other fallen angels, maybe they’re not worth so much. It’s the heart that they’re missing. That’s something you got a whole barrel keg full of.”  
Castiel swallowed and twisted his fingers together. “I... wanted to ask...” He looked Missouri in the eye, then Pamela. “Does Dean feel the same way about me as I feel about him? It feels like a lie, when he says he doesn’t. But he believes it, he believes every word. I don’t think he knows how he feels.”  
“There you have it, honey. Feelings are confusing things. Dean’s gotta be running through an awful lot of them right now.”  
“He is... scared, of feeling lust for another man,” Castiel said, feeling a tiny surge of arousal as he said it. _Lust_. He liked the thought, the mere idea that Dean might feel that for him. The same way he wanted to touch Dean, maybe he wanted to let him touch. Or touch back.  
Castiel shivered, then realised his thoughts and feelings were practically being broadcast to his company. “Sorry,” he whispered.  
“No need to be, honey, we already know how you feel.”  
“It doesn’t scare you?” he asked. “That we’re both men?”  
“There’s nothing scary about it,” Pamela answered, kicking one boot so the table wobbled under its weight. “Maybe to some people, but us? Nah. We see people’s insides, the way they think. It’s less rare than you’d imagine.”  
Missouri nodded. “People aren’t usually so aware of it as you are, though,” she said to Castiel. “So long as you don’t let everyone know, you’ll be fine.”  
Castiel’s mind began to whirr. “Death’s prophecy―”  
“You’re some time away from that, I wouldn’t worry about that now,” Missouri said sharply. “We only have a few moments here, however; company’s on its way.”  
“Who’s coming?” Castiel barked, sitting half-up in his chair.  
“Gabriel, with a message.”  
Castiel hesitated, then sat back down.  
“Andy!” Missouri called, only waiting a second before the young man showed up, pale, dark-haired and slight-framed. “Are you done with your projections now?”  
Andy closed his eyes, focus changing below his eyelids. He flicked them open again and nodded. “She’s back, she’s pacing.”  
“Doesn’t like it, huh?” Pamela grinned. “See how she likes crummy mind games.”  
“Hey!” Andy said, and Pamela rolled her eyes.  
“All right then, mediocre-to-average mind games.”  
“I’m better than you’ll ever be at messing with people’s heads,” Andy said, spitefully. Pamela half-closed her eyes and gave a small accepting shrug.  
“Whose mind are you tampering with?” Castiel asked, looking up at Andy.  
Andy was about to answer, when―  
“Sorry to interrupt this party,” came Gabriel’s voice from the doorway, “but the Priestess is looking for our missing Castiel, there. I had to check the garret, you birdbrain. You made me climb all those stairs, and you’re all the way down here.”  
Missouri stood up and looked the fallen angel down disapprovingly.  
Gabriel sighed. “Well fine, okay. I skated back down the stairs on a board. It was awesome. Are you ready to go, now? Priestess hates being kept waiting.”  
Castiel was already on his feet, overtaking Gabriel on his way to the door. He spun mid-step to send a mental thanks to the psychics, getting a smile and a nod in return, and then he was out into the night again, Gabriel on his tail.  
“What does she want to see me about?” Castiel directed, realising he was wearing his blue shirt, the one the Priestess didn’t know about. He tugged at the hem, not sure what to do with it.  
“She didn’t tell me, she was just very, kind of... agitated, I guess.” Gabriel skipped beside Castiel to keep up, noticing his hand worrying at his shirt.  
“What’s with the blue panic?”  
“She only gave me white to wear. I used my power to turn this blue, and she’ll know, I know she’ll know.”  
“You didn’t get back to your rooms to change?”  
Castiel thought back to this morning, having woken up in Dean’s bed. After Dean left for church, he’d really had no reason to change. “I feel more comfortable in these clothes,” he said, looking down at his brown trousers and bare feet.  
“I can change them back if you want―”  
“No!” Castiel cried, lurching out of the way of Gabriel’s helpful hand. “I want to keep them.”  
“Just for a bit, maybe a cover while you’re talking to the Priestess. She won’t see.”  
They were headed up the stairs now, hurried. Castiel was at a loss; if the Priestess was in his room already, he had no time and no place to change. “All right, but...”  
“I’ll be careful, don’t panic. I know they’re like your boyfriend’s clothes, or however you want to look at it.”  
“Dean is not my boyfriend.”  
Gabriel made no reply, but wrapped a hand over Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel felt the white dripping over him like paint, cool and sticky. Soon he looked the same as usual, pale linen all plain and pure and boring.  
“Yeah, you look a million times better in blue.”  
“I will take that as a compliment.”  
“You should. Dean had good taste.”  
Castiel huffed. “Dean did not pick the colour. I did.”  
“But he’s the one that keeps making you wear it, right?”  
“Dean doesn’t make me - just stop talking to me. Stop it,” Castiel snapped, shoving Gabriel lightly on the arm. “Dean and I are not friends any more.”  
“Wh- what? You’re kidding.”  
“I don’t joke.”  
“You should, because man, that one _hurts_.”  
“Myself more than you, I dare say,” said Castiel bitterly.  
“I dare say, too. You’ll let me know when he comes round, won’t you?”  
Castiel smiled, enjoying the fact that Gabriel assumed it was Dean’s fault. They pulled up to the last corridor before Castiel’s room, stopping at the door. Gabriel made to push it open, but Castiel held his arm for a moment.  
He checked to see if there was anyone around, before leaning to whisper to Gabriel, “Dean and I kissed.”  
“You... Well, whoo-ee, good for you!”  
Castiel took in a tiny breath. “Dean didn’t react well.”  
“Bastard.”  
“I fail to see what his parentage has to do with―”  
“Castiel!”  
“Priestess,” Castiel replied, dropping Gabriel’s arm and coming face-to-face with the woman that glared at him from the doorway.  
“I have been waiting for ten minutes now, and here I find you yammering away outside. You continue to do this to me―” she broke off to glare at Gabriel, who backed away and then scarpered around the corner.  
“Are you trying to embarrass me, Castiel?”  
Castiel had no chance to reply, before he was led into his room by a swift turn and the _tap-tap-tap_ of her heels on the stone floor. She let him enter, then slammed the door behind them both.  
“The peace treaties I was sent to sign today were non-existent,” she hissed, pacing on the worn wood of the floor. There were grooves in the soft planks, grazed into them by years of pressing heels.  
“What do you mean?” asked Castiel, sitting on the end of his bed.  
“I mean, I got there, and not only does the city not exist, but neither does the war I was sent to stop.”  
“I... don’t―”  
“Somebody is messing around with me, Castiel. I don’t know their reasons, but I am not stupid. I can tell it was someone’s idea of a clever joke - to make me think there was something more important than this city.”  
“They were... messing with your mind,” Castiel ventured.  
“Whoever they were, I had this little niggling feeling I was meant to be somewhere, and I ride out there, following a familiar road like it were my own garden path. I had never been to this place in all my life.”  
“Why are you telling me this?” Castiel inquired, half-expecting a slap on the face for his troubles.  
“Because you listen, angel,” the Priestess said, cupping his chin in her palm. “You don’t have anywhere to be, you have nobody to talk with. Your mind is empty and ripe for filling with my own thoughts. This way,” she said, tilting her head and smiling sweetly down at him, “I have much less to think about all by my lonesome.”  
“I appreciate your confidence in me, your Grace.”  
“Isn’t that sweet,” she murmured, rubbing a thumb pad over his lip. The lips Dean had kissed. Castiel flushed hot for a moment.  
“What... if...” Castiel started, swallowing. “What if I found someone?”  
Meg clucked, sitting down beside Castiel on the bed, hand smoothing down Castiel’s neck and coming to rest on his shoulder. “Someone what, angel?”  
“Somebody to love.”  
The hand on Castiel’s shoulder turned into a vice-like claw, perhaps subconsciously, for the Priestess’ voice remained as tender as ever. “Whatever do you mean by that, Castiel?”  
“What if I met another person, who I... love.”  
“You do not know love, angel. You love me, that’s all.”  
Castiel frowned. “How can you know what I feel?”  
“You don’t have my permission to feel, Castiel. You are here to exist, and only to exist. Emotion is such a petty thing, a human thing. You are far above that, Castiel. You are worth the world to me.”  
Castiel’s head fluttered with thought. The Priestess was telling him better things than Missouri, even more than he ever received from Dean in words. And yet, he didn’t feel better, he didn’t feel as loved. Was he reading this wrong?  
“You love me?”  
The Priestess purred with a low moan. “Of course I do, angel. Of course.” She was stroking his ear, pushing his hair behind it gently.  
“Would you still love me if I loved someone else?”  
The Priestess ceased her stroking, nails cutting into Castiel’s ear, but he didn’t move. “Who is this person whom you love so dearly, over myself?”  
Castiel swallowed. “A theoretical person.”  
“Is that all?”  
“Yes.”  
“You must know, Castiel, that there is no room in your life to love more than one person. That person must be me, because I need you, I need you here, untethered and undistracted. You have not used your power?”  
“I have not.”  
“Well done.” She slid her hand to hold Castiel’s in his lap, fingers tangling around his. She froze for a second. “Castiel. Where is your ring?”  
Castiel looked down at his hands, and chill after chill began to roll down his spine. Dean had taken it when they had left for the forest today, as he always had, and he still had it in his pocket when he had galloped off, declaring that he didn’t want to see Castiel again.  
“I - I must have dropped it,” he said, weakly.  
“Where?” she demanded, standing up and throwing his hand back to his lap. “Tell me where it is.”  
“I don’t know.”  
She laughed mirthlessly, coming to press her knees into Castiel’s at the foot of the bed, taking his face in her hand. “You do know. I _know_ that you know. Where have you hidden it?”  
“I haven’t hidden it,” he insisted, eyes shining.  
“You think this is fun, don’t you? You realise what those rings mean to this city? To this society?”  
Castiel shook his head, “I understand, I know what it means.”  
“Then why,” she hissed, leaning her head to bare her teeth right up against Castiel’s ear, “are you not wearing your _ring?_ ”  
“I swear, I don’t know where it―”  
His eyes bounced in his skull as a hand lashed at his face, the side of his head coming to hit the bedpost. He heard nothing but an almighty crack, and then the roar of blood pounding in his head. He was overly aware of one side of his head, like he knew the exact particles of air that touched it. Without having to look or touch, he knew he was bleeding.  
“Unless you have your ring on your finger by the next time I see you, the consequences will be dire.”  
Castiel did not need to ask what she meant by ‘dire’. He couldn’t get his ring back without seeing Dean, and so, he was now doomed to a life inside this room, swaddled by blankets and sheets and cushioning, like a world of padding to keep him safe, unharmed, never to use his power. He barely cared any more, since Dean no longer wanted to see him. Cupid would still be allowed in to tend to him, and he would bring news of the outside world. It would not be so bad.  
“I understand, your Grace.”  
“Now, angel,” she said softly, thumb touching his lip again. He wanted to pull away, for that part of his body was not hers to touch. He could bite her, hard and angry like a dog. But that would be foolish. He longed to lash out. He toyed with the idea that he could be more powerful than her, that he could destroy her in one blow. But, she had Death under her control. No being could manage that without a horde of power behind them. She would snuff Castiel out in an instant, irreplaceable or otherwise.  
“Angel, where have you put that wonderful perfume of yours?” she crooned, pulling his lip between her thumb and finger as she stood up. He felt the strain of loose muscles - no choice but to follow her directive hold. She pulled him to his dressing table, its oval mirror set atop the carved white wood of the drawers; spiralling legs twisted all the way to the floor.  
“Show me,” she said, and Castiel bent to open a drawer, the one that contained nothing but the perfume that Dean had bought for him. “Ah, here we are,” she hummed, taking the slender blue glass from the drawer and holding it in front of her.  
She popped the lid and held it out for Castiel to drip on her wrist. He tried to be sparing with his droplets, always unhappy that the Priestess was so intent on walking around smelling how Cas wanted to smell, with that scent that made Dean make such exciting noises.  
“More, angel, a few drops more.” Castiel bit his tongue and dropped again, letting a tiny stream flow down her arm. She made a pleased sound, rubbing her wrists together and pressing them to her nose. “Isn’t it delightful?” she prompted, offering her wrist to Castiel.  
Not meaning to insult, he bent to sniff, but only mimed inhalation, not willing to taint his memory of the scent on his own skin, how it linked in his mind to the way Dean reacted. And the time when Dean breathed in his bare skin, thinking it was perfume. Castiel still felt an irrepressible tingle at that thought.  
“You must thank Cupid for getting me this,” she said, blinking as she breathed in again.  
“I shall,” Castiel ground out. Lies, upon lies, upon lies. It was thrilling, never knowing when he would be caught out - but always terrifying, for the same reason.  
“You don’t mind if I take it, do you? It seems to silly, having to come down here every time I need to refresh a little.”  
Castiel felt his chest clench slightly. “I...”  
“Oh, of course you don’t mind. You love me, don’t you? I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier. Huh,” she chuckled, wrapping her fingers around the bottle greedily.  
Castiel was starting to resent how often she reinforced his love for her, like she was reminding him. Dean was right, he never loved this woman. He had never known love.  
He had never known love, until he loved Dean.  
“Now, I have to be going,” she said, touching Castiel’s bare wrist gently. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his head, the wetness where blood was trickling down his neck. “Remember,” she suddenly growled, teeth bared like an angry cat, skull vibrating at the force her jaw was clenched - “ _find your ring_ , Castiel.”  
“I will, your Grace,” he said, breathless. He felt quite queasy.  
“Good. Have a good night, angel. I will send Cupid to see to your head, poor thing. So clumsy, aren’t you?”  
Castiel realised that as soon as she closed the door, he was going to cry. He held off the tears, fighting the prickle until that last moment when she wriggled cheerful fingers, shutting the door behind her.  
Castiel sighed and collapsed to the ground - he didn’t have a single tear to spare before he passed out, blood surging out over the wooden floorboards, leeching into the dents carved by the Priestess’ shoes.  
~  
“Oh, pet, that’s just not _right_.”  
“There’s a lot that ain’t right about this, Cupe.”  
“Here, take his feet.”  
Castiel opened one eye, unsure why he felt like he was floating. “Mh?”  
“Don’t talk, Castiel, you’ll be okay. I’ve fixed you as best as I can, but you’re bound to feel wobbly.”  
Castiel swallowed, huffing out a delicate breath. Then he groaned.  
“I know, right? Such a bitch.” That was Gabriel’s voice. “If she wouldn’t wipe me from existence for even thinking about it, I’d tear her limb from limb, display her guts somewhere her eyes could see them.”  
“Wouldn’t we all love to?” Cupid mused, his weight pressing into the bed as he sat beside Castiel. Castiel felt the soft warmth of his healing hands brushing down the side of his head, and realised he felt no more pain there, only stickiness and a slight numb throb.  
“Where’s Dean?” Castiel muttered, dry lips scrubbing at his pillow.  
There was a silence, wherein Castiel could sense Gabriel and Cupid sharing a significant look.  
“He’s not on the best terms with you at the moment, honey. Not sure if you remember.”  
Everything flooded back into Castiel’s consciousness, the kiss coming first, followed by that wrench of emptiness as it was all dragged away. Even the candles by his bedside seemed to give out a cold light.  
“He doesn’t...”  
“Oh, sweetheart he loves you, he does,” Cupid consoled him, hand stroking down his face over and over; it was strangely calming. “He might not ever say it, but that’s because he’s a boy, and boys are stupid like that.”  
“I’m a boy.”  
“You’re not a stubborn jackass,” Gabriel informed him. “Dean has serious emotions-to-words translation issues.”  
“When it comes to Dean,” Castiel croaked, rolling over to look at the sheets draped over his bed, “so do I.”  
“At least you know you love him.”  
“Please stop saying that.”  
Gabriel sat on the other side of Castiel’s bed and nudged him with the back of his hand. “It’s true though, right? You had a quick smooch, and now you’re head-over-heels. That’s kind of how it works.”  
“No, I... I don’t need his love.”  
Gabriel huffed, patting Castiel on the cheek. “It’s all well and good, you being a strong independent woman and all that, but seriously, there comes a time when you just need to admit, you will friggin’ die without each other.”  
“I don’t depend on him, there is nothing I need from him.”  
“You need someone, Cas. You’ve been miserable until now. If you haven’t noticed, we have. Me, Cupe here, Anna. Balthazar, even. He keeps saying you look ‘chipper’. You’ve got that mythical spring in your step. And if it’s gotta be someone that you fell for, better Dean than anyone else. You can be messed up and lonely together.”  
“He’s a good boy,” Cupid said, hand on Castiel’s heart, feeling its heavy beat. “He knows how good you look in blue, anyway.”  
Castiel glanced down to find he was wearing his blue shirt again, and he flashed a grateful glance to Gabriel. “For the last time, I picked the colour myself.”  
“You didn’t happen to be prying into Dean’s thoughts at the time, did you?”  
“I’ve never―” Castiel blinked in thought. “He was simply thinking ‘blue’ very loudly.”  
“There we have it, ladies and gentlefolk,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands once and standing up, the scabbard on his belt straightening as he stood. “Dean had excellent taste in both clothing and men.”  
Castiel was about to reply but instead lost his train of thought in a quiet laugh that tickled his throat. “I am a poor choice for anyone’s mate - friend, lover, or otherwise. I’m too quiet, too clueless, I get overly focused; I’m too compliant with people’s wishes if they have any kind of power over me, and I don’t understand my emotions. I also find myself spinning webs of lies to get what I want. I am not a saint, and I have far too many inclinations to become a wilful sinner.”  
“You don’t get it, do you, _Cas?_ ” Gabriel said, leaning over the bed, his hands sinking deep into the blanket. “He likes you for all of those things. Despite those things. Because of those things. Maybe, yeah, it’s confusing, for you and him both, but there’s gotta be some poor sod on this Earth who loves you for you. Apparently it’s Dean.”  
“But―”  
“Shut it, Cas. Right, I’m gonna clean this blood off you, and you’re gonna go to sleep. You’re gonna wake up all prettified and lovely as hell, and tomorrow you and Dean are gonna kiss and make up, got it?”  
“Gabr―”  
“Shut it, Cas. Final offer.”  
Cupid gave a warm smile, passing the baton entirely to Gabriel as he left the room quietly.  
Castiel gave a resigned nod, feeling his muscles relax when Gabriel pressed two fingers to his forehead. The stickiness at the side of his head lifted, his hair unmatted, and no longer was his heartbeat throbbing in his ear. “Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, bro.”  
Gabriel blew out the three candles with a single puff from the other side of the room, then with a last glance back, closed the door behind him.  
Castiel lay in the dark and let his eyes get used to the blackness, eventually picking up on patches of pale moonlight, shadows of the lead lattice criss-crossed across the ceiling. It was deathly quiet in the room now, without the bustle of heels on the wood, of people speaking gently, or the hum of his own low voice in his ears.  
What he _wanted_ to hear was the rustle of sheets, of a sleeping man beside him. For two nights in a row, Dean had shared a bed with him: first in this bed, after Dean had collapsed after their rooftop adventure - and last night, huddled under Dean’s blankets, trying not to think about the ghostly silver shadows that inhabited Limn’mere.  
Tonight he was alone, as he always had been for the past six years. But this time, it was different. There was the loss of something that had been there and was taken away, as opposed to something that had never existed.  
Castiel sighed and rolled onto his side, spying the window through the slits of his eyes. Dean could be looking at the moonlight in the same moment, thinking about Castiel.  
Castiel’s eyes shimmered open, and he let out a breath. He could think about Dean, all alone by himself, where nobody could judge him, or tell him to think about the bad things, or the things that hurt him.  
He only had to think of the things that made him happy.  
He closed his eyes again and began to visualise.  
Kissing. Dean’s lips, his stubble, the softness of his mouth, so hesitant to taste another man. The way he breathed out against Castiel’s cheek, how he felt the breath in his hair. His hands, twisting through his dark locks.  
Castiel pushed a hand through his hair, mimicking how Dean slid his fingertips over his scalp ever so gently, thumb nudging behind his ear. It felt strange, feeling it for himself and not having another person to touch in return.  
His other hand pressed to his lips, trying for the pressure Dean had put on them, but not finding it. He instead brushed his lips with his thumb, pushing away all thoughts of the Priestess touching him there - instead imagining the rougher pad of Dean’s thumb on his lip, slipping over the edge and sliding into the slick of his mouth. Castiel sucked on his fingers, tongue soft as anything over his skin. Wet like a kiss, sensitive as any touch to his lips.  
Castiel realised the heat in his mouth was travelling through him, bypassing his chest and ending with a throb in his belly, thick and pulsing.  
He slipped his hand under the blanket, fingers wet, pushing his shirt up and rubbing his open hand over the flat plane of his stomach. It felt like Dean’s did, when Castiel had pressed his palm under Dean’s shirt. Dean had liked that, Castiel knew he had. He’d been doing little more than indulging Castiel’s curiosity, but he knew Dean had felt that flicker of arousal when Castiel had kept on rubbing, bristling his fingers through the hair below his navel.  
Castiel did the same for himself, fingertips scrubbing through wiry hair, feeling it bounce back as his touch passed. He let it tangle, enjoying the tingles of hair tugging at his skin. He felt hot all over; his whole body tense with excitement for what was coming.  
He wanted to try Dean’s suggestion, a different way to move his hand. He only allowed himself a second of hesitation, before he reached down with his other hand and undid his trousers, pushing them down past his hips. His legs were entangled in material; the blanket was weighty and his trousers were now loose, but he couldn’t care less at the moment - his hand had found what it was looking for, hot and heavy in his palm. He hummed under his breath, eyes closed as he pressed a cheek into his pillow, hips leaving the bed below him for a second as he got comfortable.  
He began to touch, gently, fingertips trailing lines up his length, thumb over the head. He was already slick to the touch, wetness and warmth smearing over his hand as he palmed it, almost fully hard now.  
He bit his bottom lip, letting free a soft, stuttering breath. With his toes curling into the blanket above him, he barely had a thought to brace himself before he took himself in hand and tugged, mimicking the movement Dean had showed him.  
He gasped, hips bucking right into his hand, throwing the blanket half off him, a leg splaying away from him into the cool air, spreading his knees. His hand couldn’t stop, not now. He let it fly over him, up and down, squeezing, twisting, pulling toward and away.  
Why had he never done it like this before? It was so natural, so easy.  
Of course, it was the movement the deer made when they mated; perhaps that was how humans moved as well. Castiel had never seen the act being performed, he had no way to know since nobody had told him.  
The male, he had climbed up on his mate’s back - Castiel turned over, knees pressing into the mattress, hand between his legs still, the other hand holding the wooden frame at the head of the bed. In his mind, he became the beast; he thrust into his mate, member lost inside them, hot and wet and tight. Castiel squeezed, hand quickly returned to his mouth so he could lick it, tasting bitterness and that peculiar musky scent, something he had never tasted until this moment.  
Hand wet now, he could feel it sliding against him, solid flesh running through his clamped fist, like a round tunnel of slick fingers. The bed rocked as he pushed forward, hips moving like they had never done before. Before now, this kind of pleasure had only come from gentle touch, massaging and petting. Now it was rough, unpractised, but intense and desperate.  
He gasped on every thrust, trousers twisting around his knees, blanket lost off the edge of the bed. He let go of himself for a moment to remove his shirt, tossing it onto the floor carelessly.  
He was a deer, with the most magnificent antlers. Below him was another male, caught beneath him and braying with pleasure, shivering and moaning, pushing back into Castiel’s pressure. As Castiel keened, head tipping back, he saw the deer in his mind’s eye call out, eyes flashing with dilated green pupils. Green, like Dean’s.  
And now Castiel had no reason to veil his thoughts; he imagined Dean spread before him, naked and gasping, clutching at the blankets underneath him, as out of control as Castiel always found himself when he felt like this; perspiring and trembling endlessly, no catch on his open mouth, lips wet whether he licked them or not.  
He wanted the feel of skin beneath him, the touch of a male, more of that heady musk flooding his nostrils. He wanted to breathe Dean in like Dean had breathed him in, he needed that earthy scent that followed Dean around like an aura.  
Castiel fell forward, face on the pillow that was slowly toppling off the bed, mouthing against the silk, as soft as Dean’s lips. His hand kept up its unsteady pace, jerking restlessly. He was close now, he felt the release building.  
He closed his mouth and let out a single note of a hum, a frown between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the sensations that were sizzling like fire inside him. He swallowed down a gasp, eyes flicking open - and then he came, a rush of heat burning through his system.  
The wetness on his hands was more than he’d ever had before, dribbling down between his legs as his hand’s movements forced it from him. He grunted, thighs trembling as his knees spread even further apart, sliding over the sheets. The white silk was stained and sticky now. Castiel ran his free hand through the liquid, cooler and thicker once it had left him.  
He released a series of hurried breaths, mouth unable to close. His eyes fell half-hooded, face flushed. He felt so spent. He’d never been this tired afterwards.  
With a tiny wail, he collapsed onto his front, spread-eagled over the empty bed, blanket and pillows and shirt all around him in a sea of discarded cloth. He could feel semen against his skin, everything damp.  
But oh, now he was smiling. It felt like a rush of bliss; tired and lazy, but a kind of potent happiness that didn’t seem keen to desert him. He purred to himself and rolled over, limbs relaxed. He felt like a liquid, pliable and floppy and loose.  
Then he rolled off the edge of the bed and squawked inelegantly, falling into his blanket with a muffled thump. He lay dazed for a second, before blinking at the ceiling and realising what a mess he must look right now.  
His trousers were twisted around his calves, feet lost amidst crumpled fabric; from there up, he was naked, sweaty and covered in various substances, all of which were sticky and smelled quite strange.  
Castiel had enjoyed this experience immensely. He pressed a palm to his forehead, ignoring the wet slap it made, and laughed to himself. If Dean could see him now...  
Castiel’s smile fell, as did his hand. He put his palms over his chest, fingers laced together. How many sins had he just committed? Did it matter? Nobody would know.  
Nobody except himself, and God.  
But how harshly would God judge him? Castiel only knew one man who could tell him.  
~  
“Forgive me Father, for I have... may have... sinned.”  
Bobby sighed. “Tell me what you did, I’ll tell you what you did wrong.”  
“Yes, that was why I came here. You do God’s work, and you know His will―”  
“Hold on there, whoa. I know people, not God. I’m only a man, same as you.”  
“I am not a man. I’m an angel.” Castiel swallowed. “Fallen angel.”  
“That’s close enough, kid. I know a fair amount of angels that do sin as well as they do saint.”  
“If you mean Gabriel... yes, he does tend to lose track of what’s right and wrong. But he remains a good person, I think.”  
“That he does, but I ain’t meant to give away personal information like sweetmeats, so I think you should get to the point, if it ain’t too much trouble.”  
Castiel let out a slow breath, closing his eyes. He shut out the orange glow of the church that bled into the confession booth, pressing his fingertips in a steeple against his lips as he leant forward.  
“I have had... impure thoughts.”  
“How impure we talkin’ here? I’ve dealt with my fair share of murderous ideas, so don’t think I’m gonna judge you too harshly for that. Or, have God judge. Or whatever it is I’m meant to be doing.”  
“You seem unsure about your purpose here.”  
Bobby snorted. “Don’t go turning this back on me; like I said, I’m only human. It’s a big ask, being the voice o’ God.”  
“Metatron is the voice of God.”  
“Shut up and tell me what you did, y’idjit.”  
“I had lustful thoughts. Lust...” Castiel screwed his face up, tipping his chin to his chest. Lust was new for him. Before Dean, touch was for pleasure, enjoyment. Now it was for release, to relieve the want that was building inside him. There was no denying how wrong it was.  
“‘s part of being human, don’t sweat it. Compared to your other angel pals, you’re the golden boy. This is only, what, the third time I’ve seen you now?”  
“Fourth.”  
“I don’t count the time you came down here to apologise for coming down here. God understood.”  
Castiel smiled blithely, eyes still closed. “I’m afraid my feelings tonight went beyond a little flicker of want for a passing tavern girl, Father.”  
“Last time I’m saying it, Castiel: call me Bobby.”  
“Bobby.”  
“That’s better,” Bobby grumbled. “Did you give in to want, son?” he asked, and Castiel heard the mocking grin behind his words. Human wants were nothing to Bobby, he forgave easily, especially those who he knew were pure of heart.  
“I did give in, but... not in the way you think. There was no girl involved.”  
“I don’t need to hear about the one-on-one time with your hand, Castiel. Just accept that you’re gonna want that, and move on.”  
“Bobby, you don’t understand.”  
“Then tell me what you’re trying to say, instead’a yammerin’ on about it!”  
Castiel bit his lip and steeled himself. “I imagined myself making love to another man.”  
There was silence for a long time from the other side of the confession both partition.  
A very long time.  
“Bobby?”  
“I’m thinkin’, kid.”  
“He... he doesn’t know about this. He knows I feel - we... we kissed. Me and him.”  
“And how did that go, exactly?”  
“He wanted to, but then he... pushed me away. He is a very stubborn man.”  
“At least he’s got his head screwed on right.”  
“Hm?”  
Bobby shook his head, and Castiel heard the turn of his robes as he moved. “I can’t help you, son... other than to tell you it’s gotta stop.”  
“That’s your advice?”  
“You got a better idea? You know as well as I do that that’s a big-ass sin, why else did’ya come down here?”  
“I know, Bobby, I know it is,” Castiel muttered into his hands, nose poking out between his fingers.  
“‘Hail Mary’s ain’t gonna help you with this. All I gotta say is, make sure it stops. Ends. Flat-out, cease and desist.”  
“Bobby, I can’t just _stop_ ―”  
“You can, and you will, goddamn.” Bobby took in a sharp sniff. “I got your best interests at heart here. I may be a crummy man o’ God, but I know where the line is. Sometimes I gotta put a stop to wrongdoing.”  
“Why is it wrong?”  
“The hell? You came down here, knowing you were doing something wrong, and you wanna know _why?_ ”  
“What’s the point of you, if you don’t know why something is wrong? What’s the point, if all you have is a line; good, bad, no shades of grey.” Castiel tapped his feet, distressed. “I cannot blindly follow rules any more Bobby, Dean showed me that. I cannot be as compliant, mindlessly doing what I’m told. There should be a world out there, where nobody _cares_ if I’m in love with another man. I want to be a part of that world, Bobby. Not this world.”  
Castiel stood up and opened the door to the confession booth. “Please understand. Please know that I am not disagreeing with you, I _know_ I should stop. But I have never wanted anything in my life so much as I want this. As I want him. I will do as Dean does, and leap head-first, and damn the consequences.”  
Castiel stepped back into the church, closing the booth door quietly behind him. As he strode out of the chapel, he didn’t look back.  
Sometimes confession was good for something, if not forgiveness. Now Castiel knew he was doing the right thing, whether the rest of the world thought it was wrong or not.  
~  
It was late morning before Castiel woke, well-rested and refreshed. Cupid hadn’t come to wake him, so he had slept on, peaceful and mostly free of worry. However, his mind buzzed with thought as he made his way straight to the library, unsure why he was even going.  
He’d taken advice from every one of his friends now: Missouri, Pamela, Cupid and Gabriel, Bobby. Only Death had yet to say anything on the subject. Not that Castiel needed another person to tell him what to do.  
Aside from Bobby, the way was clear. Castiel’s desires were accepted among the people he cared about. Dean was the other half of this, and as of yet, he had yet to change his mind.  
Maybe that was what Castiel was going for.  
Striding into the room of books, Castiel was immediately soothed by the sensation of the knowledge that surrounded him. It filled him like their smell did; dry and dusty, but well cared for.  
“Are you here, Death?” he called out, head turned away from the window; eyes watering from the sight of bright sunlight over the castle’s white walls through the glass.  
“I am,” came the reply from around the corner. Castiel followed the voice, and stretched his hand toward Death’s as he approached. Death didn’t even look up from his desk where he was writing, but took Castiel’s hand and absorbed his every thought and emotion in only a moment.  
“Oh, you do have a lot to think about, don’t you?” Death said, finally meeting Castiel’s eyes and setting down his writing instrument - not a quill, but a sleek pointed object, shiny black, silver-tipped.  
“Please forgive my more wanton thoughts, I didn’t mean for you to see those.”  
“They were there, and so I saw them. Feel no shame for them, Castiel.”  
Castiel kept his eyes on the floor as he sat on the edge of the desk. “I have no questions to ask of you, only telling you that I have made a decision, and that is not to feel that I am doing something wrong by feeling this way.”  
“And so you shouldn’t,” Death agreed, and Castiel realised he didn’t have to say anything, as Death already knew. Death stood up and walked around Castiel, who watched him pass. He didn’t move from the desk until Death rounded the corner, around the central staircase that was enclosed in a cage of stacked books. Death meant for Castiel to follow him.  
Castiel stepped up to the window of the library, the one overlooking the training courtyard. Death stood beside him and opened the catch, letting a cool breeze drift in from outside, ruffling some loose paper on its perch atop a pile of books.  
“What do you see, Castiel?” Death asked, eyes turned to the scuffed sand outside. Dean was there, giving a demonstration to fifteen or so other Guardsmen, mostly the younger ones. He was very accurate with Sabbath’s movements, as he fought his other sword Wendigo, which was held aloft by Gabriel’s raised hand half the courtyard away. Death already knew what he saw, so Castiel ignored the question.  
“Do you find him attractive?” Castiel asked, hand slipping over the stone windowsill, grazing at its roughness with the side of his thumb.  
Death chuckled. “To use a phrase I doubt you would recognise, but I’m sure you’d understand... He is not my type.”  
Castiel turned his head to look at his friend, his pale skin illuminated in reflected sunlight. “What is your ‘type’?”  
“Funny thing is,” Death said, smiling kindly, “being Death, I have no type to speak of.”  
Castiel glanced back to Dean, hearing a hurried instruction being shouted to Dean’s onlookers. Dean pivoted his foot through the sand and began attacking the floating sword from the other side. “You have never been in love,” Castiel concluded, eyes flickering once to Death before down to Dean yet again.  
“Are you in love?” It sounded like a test, rather than a question. Death knew his answer, but Castiel said it anyway. ”I cannot be sure. It is... infuriating. I say that I am, I feel that I am. Everything points to me feeling this - this, _energy_ , this human emotion. I change my mind every few minutes, every time I consider my feelings. It’s like I’m trying to force it down, as stubborn as people say Dean is.  
“It is largely idiotic,” he resolved, nodding gently, once. “Dean says love is letting someone be happy. Dean is happier when I don’t act like I want to kiss him. And so, I won’t. But, as I say that now, I feel... unhappy.  
“I am unhappy, not knowing if Dean loves me back.”  
Death humoured his train of thought, playing into it. “That’s the thing about love, Castiel. There are no rules to human emotion like there are rules in human society. You don’t say it any more, but you feel it; you worry about the fact that you’re both men. But rules can be broken, Castiel. Compromises can be made.”  
Castiel shook his head forcibly. “I cannot compromise his happiness for my own. It would be too selfish of me, and he would never allow it anyway.”  
“The words have been spoken to Dean multiple times, but I shall say them to you, because you need to hear them now: Take a leap of faith. Follow that instinct, right when the moment takes you.”  
Castiel pressed his lips together, forcing down anger. “There is nothing left, Death. He doesn’t want to see me, any instinct I have will never have a chance.”  
“Try, Castiel.”  
“But―”  
“ _Try_.”  
Castiel turned to glare at Death, maybe spit an irritated retort at him - but found he was gone, turned invisible or transported to another place. Castiel’s shoulders sagged and he kicked at a wooden box by his foot, growling deep in his throat.  
He grumbled internally for a long minute, tapping his fingertips on the windowsill as he leant the other elbow on it. He watched as Dean ordered the Guard to split into pairs, each Guard taking a fighting stance and beginning to trade blows. Raphael glared daggers at everyone around him, driving all potential partners off, but he was eventually stuck with Uriel as Dean literally pushed the other fallen angel toward him. Dean wiped his hands on his trousers as he moved away, passing advice to a scrawny dark-haired boy, who was adept with a sword but unsure how to fight another person. The boy was currently pitted against a young red-haired woman, and Castiel amused himself for a moment, watching how they bantered with swords, clashing kindly and good-naturedly as if having a conversation rather than a sword fight.  
Castiel realised Dean was watching him a moment later. He was trying to be inconspicuous about it, placing Gabriel pointedly between himself and the window up window up above, but he wasn't really listening to anything Gabriel was saying to him. Not while his eyes were on Castiel.  
Castiel couldn’t help but smile, crossing his arms on the sill and leaning out of the window, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. It smelled like summer now, like dry heat rising off the buildings as the sun hit them. The scent of blossoms was so faint, Castiel realised he was using the tiniest amount of angel power to detect it, and he stopped immediately.  
Instead he focused on Dean. His hair was mussed in the wind too, his light brown spikes tickled at the edges. He was smiling, replying to something Gabriel said - maybe Dean was paying attention after all.  
At a gesture from Dean, Gabriel turned around to see Castiel watching them from high above. Castiel blinked, as his gaze met Gabriel’s.  
 _What are you looking at?_ Gabriel asked. Castiel huffed, not used to having a voice rattling around in his head like that.  
 _Enjoying the view._  
 _I know my ass is delightful, but I’d rather you didn’t._  
 _I mean Dean’s face, not your rear end, Gabriel._  
 _Shame._  
Castiel glared at him, jaw set. Dean looked between the two fallen angels, knowing there was a conversation going on that he wasn’t part of. He spoke to Gabriel, words Castiel didn’t hear.  
 _Deano here wants to know if you have any paper._  
 _Why does he want paper?_  
 _He has a few things he wants to say to you without the inconvenience of having to talk through me, it seems._  
 _Dean is sensible,_ Castiel said, turning away from the window and fetching a loose sheet of paper; covered in outdated, clumsy notes, nothing important. _While you are a pleasure to talk to, Gabriel, Dean and I do share a more profound bond._  
Gabriel turned away and rallied this last comment to Dean, whose knees bent as he laughed, head tipped back. Castiel’s face split into a shy grin, taking hold of the black writing instrument that Death had been using - which had magically appeared on the windowsill as he’d looked around for something to write with. He mentally thanked Death, then put the nib to paper.  
 _Hello, Dean._ he wrote. There was little else to say, really.  
Leaning out of the window again, he stood on tiptoes and held the paper away from him, gently letting it drop. Gabriel carried it down with his eyes, letting it swoop jovially through the air, never catching on the breeze, but cutting down to where Dean stood with outstretched hands, settling gently on his palms.  
Dean glanced to Castiel with a flash of a smile as he read his greeting. He shook an outstretched palm at Gabriel, who sighed theatrically before creating a quill and ink out of thin air, turning his back so Dean could lean on him to write.  
Castiel crossed his legs behind him, feet still on the wooden block, arms folded on the sill. He felt elation, a bubbling spit of hope that Dean might still want his company. It was silly to think otherwise, really. They had given so much to each other, it was madness to think that either of them would want it to end.  
Gabriel folded the paper into the shape of a bird, then sent it carrying itself up to Castiel on its paper wings, unfurling in his hands without a single crease.  
 _Hey Cas. So I was kind of really stupid yesterday. I guess you know that. I didn’t actually mean what I said, because I seriously don’t want to not see you again. I mean I do. I want to see you. And I’m_ \- Dean’s line broke off there, and there was a word scribbled over, a splotch of ink dragged through it, and a hole in the paper. Then the exact same thing was re-written beside it. _I’m sorry._  
Castiel’s face began to ache with the need to laugh, or cry, or show some extreme emotion that he felt he had no right to feel. This cock-up hadn’t completely been Dean’s fault, had it? Castiel shook his head, batting away his thoughts. Accept it. Accept it and move on.  
 _I am too. And I want to see you as well. Today?_  
He scrunched the paper in a ball and threw it, not even needing Gabriel’s guidance to send it right towards Dean, where he narrowly dodged it hitting his face. It bounced twice in his hands before he unravelled it, beaming up at Castiel. Castiel hummed a laugh, leaning so far out of the window that he was resting on his stomach. One foot left the block under him, and hovered in the air behind him, toes curled.  
Dean screwed the paper into an even tighter ball, placed it on his palm and blew it, like one would blow a kiss - Gabriel whisked his hand past Dean’s ear and sent the paper ball hurtling straight through the open window, Castiel scrambling after it.  
When he returned to the window, Dean’s attention was back on his Guard, showing Christian how to properly hold a sword. Despite having trained for half as long as Dean had, Christian still was not even close to half as good. Fighting in the Guard was not his calling, yet he still worked so hard for it. Castiel knew that Dean admired Christian’s perseverance, even if he despaired at his numerous shortcomings.  
Castiel looked down at the crumpled paper, the fresh ink now smudged together, and he struggled to make out the words.  
Dean had written, _Won’t the Priestess know? I’m assuming we’re going to Limn’mere?_  
Castiel liked how Dean had overridden his fears for Castiel’s safety with both of their utmost desires: to spend time alone. Like Gabriel had told Castiel last night, Dean liked Castiel despite his faults, or because of them. It was foolish to gallivant off into the forest when the Priestess was so likely to catch wind of their desertion, but it was what Dean did. Dean was senseless when it came to what he really wanted, and Castiel was all for it. He loved Dean despite of that. Because of that.  
Castiel took the featherless quill and wrote a reply, letting it dry before folding it neatly. Gabriel unfolded it in mid-air, unwrinkling its creases as it descended onto the tip of Dean’s sword as he held it in the air, balancing as Dean lowered it. He said a word to his student, taking the paper and turning away to read it.  
 _I don’t care any more. The Priestess can think what she likes, she is a terrible person. Besides, our friends in the kitchen seem quite good at covering for us. And yes, I would love to visit Limn’mere again, with you. It was very lonely by myself._ Castiel had been in half a mind to scrub out the last part, because it seemed too woeful on his part, like he wanted sympathy. But he saw Dean shake his head, grinning. He beckoned to Gabriel again, resting the paper on his back once more to write.  
Gabriel turned around and added a few lines at the bottom of Dean’s message. Then he folded it, impossibly, into the shape of an arrow, taking the crossbow out of a passing Balthazar’s hands, loading it and shooting it right at Castiel’s face. He barely had time to move before it whizzed past him, embedding itself in the bookshelf behind him.  
As soon as he touched it, it collapsed into a harmless sheet of paper, scribbles covering it.  
Dean’s handwriting was below Castiel’s, far messier: _Meet me by the stables at 2._  
Underneath that, Gabriel had added in block letters, _UNDERWEAR IS OPTIONAL._  
Gabriel seemed to have paused there, considering the next line. Then, letters filled the paper all the way to the bottom of the page. _IF YOU LOVEBIRDS AREN’T SCREWING BY TONIGHT, I SWEAR I WILL MAKE YOU SCREW. AND THIS IS THE LAST MESSAGE, FIND SOME BETTER WAY TO TALK. WHILE SCREWING, MAYBE. GABRIEL OUT._  
Castiel’s hands felt slightly weak as he read Gabriel’s message. Screwing was sex. Sex, with Dean. Dean, having sex with Castiel. Making love. Intimately.  
He let out a tiny whine, eyes wide, scrunching the paper to his chest as he stood back on the floor of the library. Two o’clock was just under three hours away. He had a lot of panicking to do before then.  
~x~  
Sam laughed, sitting on the end of Castiel’s bed now. Castiel laughed with him, clearly not sure what he was laughing at, but pleased nonetheless.  
“Gabriel is like, my spirit animal, oh my God,” Sam said, still chuckling.  
“It’s funny that you say that, actually, given what happened to him.”  
Sam sobered up, concerned. “Why, what happened to him?”  
Castiel tasted his words in his mouth. “I shouldn’t give it away too soon, I’m sure it would be a surprise when you get there.”  
Sam harrumphed. “But you do screw, right?” he urged.  
“Why are you so eager to see this happen?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes. His voice was still quiet, tired from having been shot, and telling such a long story.  
It must be past midnight now, wolves still howling in the distance. Every time the sound breached Bobby’s castle walls, Castiel would stop his story, and wonder if it was Dean’s howl. Sam couldn’t tell the difference, but Castiel would shake his head. He knew Dean’s voice, he said. Wolf, or human, it was the same.  
“I’m not _eager_ , I just... it’s nice to have something to root for. There’s gotta be a point to this, and it’s headed in that direction, so...”  
Castiel shrugged his uninjured shoulder, the fur blanket slipping down his chest an inch or so. “There is a lot of that direction ahead. Dean and I were, to be candid about it, _very_ intimate.”  
“All right, all right. Not too many details, please. Nothing squicky.”  
“What is squicky?”  
“The part where I was screaming and covering my ears. I’d think you’d take a hint, dude.”  
“Masturbation is not squicky...”  
“Dude! It is when you’re another dude and being told the story of _exactly what you did with your hands_ , oh God, why,” he wailed, scrubbing his fingers through his hair.  
“Then I shall not tell you everything,” Castiel compromised. “But I will have you know that it is all happening in my head, in exactly the way it really happened.”  
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hands placed together in prayer, miming an exaggerated thanks.  
~x~  
Castiel was waiting by the stables half an hour before he needed to be. Once the panic had subsided, it simmered low into restlessness, and eventually just became excitement and anticipation. He was certainly looking forward to seeing Dean again, and going by their written conversation, it wasn’t going to be so difficult.  
Their arguments and disagreements seemed so petty, as Castiel saw it. They were both stubborn men, with their own sets of moral obligations, and ideals of right and wrong.  
For Dean, his issues with Castiel’s gender were his own, and getting Castiel messed up in that was presumably what he was apologising for. Castiel was happy to be a metaphorical frog, if Dean was going to accept him as that.  
Castiel wore his blue shirt, hastily washed by Cupid. There had still been smears of blood on one shoulder, and since last night it had acquired a few more... stains. Cupid had looked Castiel down disapprovingly before his face split into a warm smile, chasing away Castiel’s impending blush.  
And now, he stood in the wide entranceway to the stables, pacing across the opening, leafy trees on his right, lines of horse stalls on his left - then back again, bare feet kicking over mixed hay and wood chips.  
Sometimes he wished he had a sword at his belt, if not for protection, then just to fiddle with when he had nothing to hold. He kept tugging at the sides of his shirt, telling himself he was straightening it, when in actuality he was only pulling creases into it.  
“Cas,” Dean said, suddenly.  
Castiel gasped in alarm. He turned swiftly, looking a smiling Dean in the eye. “Now I see why you hate that so much.”  
“Sucks, don’t it?”  
“That is not to say I won’t do it to you again,” Castiel told him. “I will always enjoy that sound of yours.”  
“I sound like a friggin’ girl,” Dean grumbled, pushing past Castiel and heading to Lucifer’s stall, starting to set up his saddle for Castiel.  
Castiel stilled his hand and took the equipment from him, putting it on Lucifer himself. “You sound like a very startled Dean Winchester.” He paused, putting the metal bit into Lucifer’s mouth. “But, yes. It is a very feminine sound.”  
“Jeez.”  
Castiel smirked, tightening the stirrups and handing the long rein to Dean as they pulled into the aisle, Lucifer clopping behind them with a sluggish snort.  
Castiel then proceeded to put Chevy’s saddle on for her, Dean only watching with a quiet kind of surprise in his eyes. She whinnied, lips pulled back so Castiel saw a flash of white teeth. Castiel agreed with her.  
“What did she say?” Dean asked Castiel.  
“Speaking to animals, I cannot give an exact translation, as they mostly speak in emotion and movement.”  
“But what did she say?”  
Castiel settled her saddle, resting a hand upon it while he thought. “She said you seem oddly compliant today.”  
“Me?” Dean asked.  
“You have said nothing about me saddling your horse for you.”  
“Yeah. Well.” Dean sighed, eyes to the floor. “It’s kind of nice to see you while not yelling at you, so...”  
Chevy snickered. Castiel gasped silently and turned his eyes back to the saddle, tightening it and pulling her into the aisle beside Lucifer.  
“What’d she say?”  
Castiel shook his head. “I am not a translator, Dean.”  
“What’d she say?” Dean asked again.  
Castiel ground his teeth, sitting upon Lucifer’s back and staring at the trees outside, waiting until Dean was mounted on his horse beside him. “She said... that you and I... should engage in sexual activity.”  
Dean guffawed, leaning forward over Chevy’s head. “She didn’t say that―”  
“Yes, she did.” Castiel kept his eyes down as he pushed Lucifer to a trot. He could feel his ears burning.  
Dean caught up with him, nudging his horse ahead a short way. They were headed for the drawbridge. “My horse thinks we should...”  
“Engage in sexual activity. Yes.”  
“You’re not kidding.”  
“I am not.”  
Dean swallowed and kept his pace, hands fiddling with the reins. “I gotta tell you Cas... a lot of people seem to think we should, uh...”  
“I’m aware of what people have been saying.”  
“I mean it’s... it’s kind of dumb, right?” Dean said, looking to Castiel for agreement or disagreement - something.  
“It is indeed a very idiotic prospect.”  
Dean bit out a laugh, shaking his head very slightly. “You talk really weird, Cas.”  
“I blame the books I read and the company I keep. To me, your speech is just as peculiar as Gabriel’s.”  
Castiel felt Dean’s eyes studying him for a while, as they rode in silence, heading for the main entrance of the citadel. It was as crowded as usual. Somebody Castiel didn’t know was standing guard on the gate this time. Dean pushed through with only a salute, before leaving the path and heading for the forest with Castiel in tow.  
Upon entering the shade of the trees, Dean immediately slowed Chevy to a stop and held out his hand for Castiel’s ring.  
Castiel stopped his horse too, and looked at Dean’s hand, then at Dean.  
Dean looked back cluelessly. “What? You don’t want to hand it over this time?”  
“I don’t have my ring, Dean.”  
Dean blinked, then shock washed over his face. “Oh. Oh, it’s...” He turned and slipped his hand into his own pocket, withdrawing both his ring and Castiel’s, holding them in his cupped palm. “I had them the whole time.”  
“You ran off yesterday and never handed it back.”  
Dean looked at him guiltily, not yet putting them back in his pocket, nor moving onwards. “You were all right, though. Weren’t you?”  
Castiel considered telling him about the head injury the Priestess had bestowed upon him; the strain on his lower lip as she had dragged him across the room by it. The way he still felt the burn of her hand swiped across his cheek. But he didn’t. “She didn’t notice.”  
Dean slumped slightly in relief, eyes shining. “Thank God.”  
Castiel pulled his horse ahead, hearing Dean trotting behind him. “You were worried about me?”  
“Not until just now. I mean, you’re pretty badass, you can handle yourself. Just... not around the Priestess.”  
“You think she is my weakness?”  
“No, your weakness is not knowing your own strength. I don’t mean that you overdo it when you’re not expecting it. I mean that you don’t know what you’re capable of, how good you really are. You could destroy her totally, I swear.”  
“Dean, she has Death under her thumb―”  
“She’s hiding something, Cas. Nobody has that power, she stole it from somewhere, or she’s keeping it hidden. I actually... Okay, I have this theory.”  
Castiel turned in his saddle to look back at Dean. “Tell me.”  
“She won’t let you use your power, right? And she’s hella powerful. So my theory is that she’s, like, siphoning your power off somehow, using it to trap Death.”  
“But Death was trapped on Earth before the angels even fell; years before,” Castiel pointed out, shaking his head.  
Dean trotted forwards as the path widened, trees either side of them. “Bummer,” he said, disappointed.  
“Dean,” Castiel started, eager to discuss theories now, “I think she did something terrible. Years ago, before we angels fell. Something, so, so terrible. Death is bound never to speak of it, but there were ways that he found to hint to me. Codes, signs, hints given in my dreams.”  
Dean’s curiosity was piqued. “What kind of terrible thing?”  
“Something about souls - Death was always adamant about souls. He told me about his missing object, that there were souls attached. Lost, empty souls. Shadows of the living. I concluded that they were taken from their bodies, forcefully. Ripped apart.”  
“Like you were ripped from Heaven.”  
Castiel gasped, eyes suddenly prickled with tears. “There was so much pain, Dean. When we fell. I can’t imagine - if any of those souls felt that pain, and then never knowing what had happened...”  
Dean reached a gentle hand across between their horses, fingertips smoothing down Castiel’s arm, brushing his shirt. It was little, but it was enough to comfort Castiel. He swallowed and sat up straighter.  
“The Priestess must have found a way to take the souls from their bodies, and using the power that they hold, harness Death. And from that, I don’t know. I don’t know why she needed Death, nor why she continues to need him on Earth. I have my suspicions that it is simply because she fears his wrath, should he ever be let free. He has told me multiple times how angry he is that he was trapped, with good reason.”  
Castiel looked up at Dean, smiling very slightly through watery eyes. “Should he ever be freed, he would kill her.”  
“But... this is all theory?” Dean asked.  
“It’s an educated guess. I am almost completely certain that it is truth.”  
“Well, shit.”  
Castiel questioned the expression for only a moment before shrugging in agreement, turning his gaze back to the path ahead. They did not even need to guide their horses, since they knew the path to take.  
They rode in silence for a few minutes, Castiel basking in the sound of the trees, the rustle of a cooler wind between the boughs, roaring low in the distance. They had not brought any food today, only expecting a couple of hours of company rather than a full picnic this time.  
Birds fluttered between the branches above, and Castiel was pleased to note that he knew all of the species.  
“Wood pigeon,” he pointed out, seeing the flash of the grey underside of its wings as it crossed overhead.  
“They taste delicious,” Dean said, and Castiel scowled. Dean saw his face and laughed, the sudden sound sending a line of starlings rushing across their path.  
They were silent once more, listening for birdsong. Without warning, Dean imitated a bird, lips pulled in a tight circle. Castiel stared at him in wonder as Dean repeated the sound, whistling a tune that Castiel recognised but didn’t know the bird it came from.  
“How are you doing that?” he asked, eyes wide.  
“Whistling?” Dean asked. Castiel nodded, jaw slack. “You’ve never whistled?”  
Castiel shook his head. “I have never known a person who could make that sound.”  
“It’s a blackbird, man. They sing in the morning and evening so they’re not exactly gonna reply right now, but...” He whistled again, eyes on Castiel as he tipped his head back a tiny bit.  
“They reply?” Castiel said, getting enthusiastic.  
“If you’re good enough, yeah. They think you’re their mate or something. But, can’t you talk to animals anyway?”  
“I can speak to them through direct eye contact, but translation through simply listening to their calls is slightly more difficult.”  
“What’re these guys saying?” Dean asked, gesturing to the open air, the chatters and calls of afternoon bird life.  
Castiel squinted. “Rain, food, worms, mating season, humans, insects... It is all very garbled.”  
“You know you could make a career out of that. Livestock whisperer, or something.”  
“I have no need for a career.”  
Dean shrugged, tipping his head to the sky. “Oh, your bird friends were right, you smell that?”  
Castiel sniffed, inhaling the grey scent of approaching rain. “I do.”  
Dean chuckled, putting his lips together again to whistle once more, a different tune this time. Castiel watched in wonder, copying the pucker of Dean’s lips. “What do you do to make the sound?”  
“Lick your lips, make a tiny, tiny hole. Blow, just gently.”  
Castiel attempted this, and did nothing more than make a rude noise, spraying a fine mist of spittle. He coughed in surprise as Dean laughed heartily, scaring a few birds.  
“You’ll get it, you have to angle your lips a bit. Keep your tongue out the way.”  
Castiel tried multiple times, Dean continuing to whistle, his tune turning away from birdsong and to something else, something beautiful that Castiel had never heard before. Castiel stopped trying to whistle, mouth slightly agape as he heard a wonderful tune spill from Dean’s screeches, unbelievable.  
“Dean... how are you... what is that?” Absolute astonishment was in his voice, tight throat turning his words breathy.  
“Song I heard in church, nothing special.”  
“I’ve never...”  
Dean seemed to realise something. “You’ve never heard a song?”  
Castiel shook his head. “Show me?”  
Dean flashed a quick, nervous grin. “I hardly remember it, plus I’m kind of off-key...”  
“Please.”  
Dean huffed another laugh. “You gonna beg next?”  
“Would you like me to beg?”  
Dean’s mouth fell open for a moment, speechless. “Uh, no - you don’t... no. Um.”  
He was quiet for a few moments, thinking of how the song went. He eventually pushed his lips together and began to whistle, something eerie and harmonious, each note following the last - not like birdsong, random and disconnected, but notes that joined from each other, redeeming the last line like a poem.  
If Castiel had been walking, rather than on horseback, he would have stopped his feet to stand and soak up the song, blinded by awe. Closing his eyes, he realised that song was so much more powerful than sight; he didn’t need to be seeing anything to have it there in his mind. He could see the song, rising and falling through the branches of the trees, like a line of colour, twisting and dancing like a fish over a sunlit pond, like a hawk diving for its prey, like a loving embrace on his skin.  
Dean stopped whistling abruptly, and Castiel turned to see him looking back, expression unreadable. “What is it, why did you stop?” he asked.  
Dean only raised a hand halfway to Castiel, then dropped it again. Castiel reached his hand to where he was gesturing, on his cheek. His hand came away wet, and he let out a tiny surprised breath. “I’m crying?”  
“That’s some kick-ass reaction, Cas,” Dean said, kindly.  
“I was not expecting that,” Castiel whispered.  
“Me neither,” said Dean with a smile. “Kinda sweet though, if you think about it.”  
Castiel didn’t know what he meant, but he nodded anyway.  
Dean began to hum, continuing the same tune. He broke off a few seconds later with a small laugh. “Never thought I could sing in tune, I never really tried.”  
“Could you try, now?”  
Dean shrugged his bottom lip, glancing at the trees above as the leaves shook; raindrops were hitting them gently, pattering down around them. “I can try, I guess.”  
“Thank you.”  
Dean scrunched his eyes for a moment; Castiel’s gaze never left him as he parted his lips and began to sing.  
Dean was _singing_. Castiel felt the tears riding back up straight away, for no reason he could fathom.  
Dean didn’t sing words, only the tune - a mixture of ‘ _aa_ ’ noises and humming, sometimes a ‘ _la_ ’. He grinned bashfully whenever he caught Castiel’s eye, eyes crinkling at the corners. Castiel smiled back, ignoring the tears that fell into his lap occasionally; he passed them off as the rain that splashed droplets onto his bare hands, cooler than his tears but just as gentle.  
Their horses had slowed down, Castiel realised, maybe they’d slowed themselves, or maybe both he and Dean had subtly pulled on their reins, neither wanting to reach Limn’mere and have this spell broken.  
The rain washed Castiel’s cheeks, soaking his shirt from his shoulders down. His hands were cold now, feet tickling with raindrops as they collected on the tops of them.  
Still Dean sang, the song changing once he ended the first - he missed notes, Castiel could notice now where they were meant to be; they balanced at the end of lines, repeated sometimes, and when the second repeat came around, Castiel joined in.  
Dean stopped for a few notes, stunned when Castiel’s voice harmonised with his own, but then he grinned, smile right across his face, hand drawn through his wet hair as he began to sing once more.  
Castiel was silent again when they reached the end of the chorus, but Dean backtracked with a quick “hey―”, and sang the last part again. Castiel and he sang together, horses pulling closer. Castiel’s foot gently clipped Dean’s boot, and he kicked him lightly, chuckling around a broken note.  
Dean’s voice was gritty and husky when he sang. Castiel found his own was deeper, more melodic, but somehow hit the same notes. He could feel a vibration deep in his throat, the song coming from someplace different than where his speaking voice came from. His breathing changed, pulling from deeper in his lungs, filling with rainy air, exhaling with lines of song.  
It was beautiful. Castiel could not recall ever being happier.  
Dean eventually went ahead from the chorus, whistling the last few lines, before dropping back to a hum and finishing the song. He let out a sharp breath of relief, chin falling to his armoured chest with a laugh.  
“Oh, man,” he croaked, voice tired.  
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said to him, earnest. Dean only nodded, then twisted his head to pull his horse into the clearing on Limn’mere as they reached the line of shrubs that kept their secret hidden.  
Limn’mere looked different in the rain, shivering all around as droplets hit the leaves that held it like a leafy bubble. The rain across the pond was easier to see because the grassy area was so heavily covered by trees - over the pool it fell straight down, a haze of grey. It was like a waterfall, spread out into droplets across the surface, bright light of the sun illuminating it in the same way it did for mist.  
The men dismounted their horses, patting them with permission to go and chew on some damp grass. Chevy nickered and trotted to a shadowier corner, Lucifer heading in the opposite direction and going to munch on a tree.  
“I have never swum in the rain,” Castiel said.  
Dean rolled his eyes with a sarcastic sigh. “You want to swim _again?_ ”  
“I enjoy swimming,” Castiel reasoned, already pulling off his wet shirt.  
“Yeah, me too, but - you don’t get bored?”  
“Do you get bored doing something you enjoy over and over?”  
Dean pouted. “No.”  
Castiel rested his case with a pointed eyebrow raise, bending to pull his trousers off.  
Dean coughed in alarm. “You’re not wearing your breeches?”  
“Gabriel wrote on our paper that underwear was optional for this meeting,” Castiel replied, taking a step forward and basking in the cool flutter of rain that brushed over his front.  
“And you took him seriously? Uh, anything else he wrote that I didn’t see?”  
Castiel lowered his eyes, not looking back to Dean. _If you lovebirds aren’t screwing by tonight, I swear I will make you screw._  
“No, nothing else.”  
Dean smacked his lips, sighing. “Will you kill me if I don’t swim? It’s freezing, man...”  
“It’s still warm, Dean.” Castiel dipped a toe into the water, then withdrew it. “The water is even warmer. And no, I would not kill you. But I always enjoy the company.”  
“Well,” Dean said, taking a step closer to Castiel, fingers on his upper arm, a gentle, pointless touch. “I’m, uh... I’m game.”  
Castiel turned to realise that Dean was standing there with him, naked. He had undressed while Castiel’s back was turned. Castiel flicked his eyes down Dean’s height, licking his lips unconsciously, before locking his eyes back on Dean’s. “You are very attractive with no clothes on.”  
Dean gawked, open mouth releasing a minuscule squeak. He clamped his jaw suddenly, then shoved Castiel hard into the water. Castiel flailed, limbs awry before he hit the surface, but came up with a startled gasp, hands moving to comb the now-floppy hair out of his eyes. Dean sat down on the edge of the pool, legs hanging over the edge of the grassy back, water halfway up his calves. Castiel reached forward and took hold of one ankle, dragging him over the grass as Dean screeched.  
“No, no! Oh no!” he cried, laughing, grasping at grass stalks helplessly.  
Castiel’s hands shimmied up his thighs, grabbing him just under the water as Dean tried his best to stay on land, even when all hope was lost. It occurred to Castiel that he might just be enjoying Castiel’s hands on his skin, creeping over his hips, dragging him closer. One hand found its way to over Dean’s heart, the other locked under his arm and heaved him backward into the pool. With a final shriek, their bodies pressed chest-to-back as they sank under the surface.  
Castiel came up first, having let go of Dean once he was immersed; he surfaced with a cry of “Ha!”, rain pouring on his head, the wet air only marginally discernible from underwater.  
Dean popped up beside him, their feet sturdy on the sandy floor of the pool, toes sunk in the thick layer of grains. Dean hummed a chuckle, and without warning, lurched forward to push Castiel back into the water with a hefty splash.  
The very second he resurfaced, Castiel gave chase to the kicking Dean, who couldn’t stop laughing, even when he was under the water, coming up often to gasp desperately at the thick air. They swam into deeper water, Dean forcing himself not to laugh as they hung a few feet below the surface, watching the rain disturb the top. It was like being on the inside of a puddle on a flagstone, inside the mirror world. It was more clouded than the pool usually was, the light greyer and murkier. Castiel turned his face down from the surface to instead study Dean treading water, watching his green eyes shifting from one part of the bubbling pool to another.  
His legs were spread as he kicked gently, wrists turning gracefully as he kept himself in one place. Castiel admired the muscles in his back, the smooth curve as his skin dipped toward his spine. His rear end was particularly appealing, Castiel thought with a half-smile. It was round and muscular, perhaps exactly the right shape to fit against Castiel’s open hand.  
Castiel noticed the tingle of heat that pressed at his groin, and a snatched glance down told him he should really be more careful about his thoughts right now, while unclothed and in full view of Dean.  
Dean looked over and caught his gaze, and Castiel felt a tremor course through him, knowing Dean had seen him looking at him, and his reaction. Dean let out a stream of bubbles from his mouth, turning his eyes to the quaking surface and swimming up to take a breath. Castiel followed him up, hand gently touching himself to see how obvious he really was. Okay, so maybe he was a little overexcited. He felt a twitch in his palm as he tried to press himself down, to no avail. He was definitely just making it worse.  
He broke the surface and met with Dean’s hollow scrutiny, almost seeing the flurries of thoughts that were shadowed over Dean’s face, as the rain glistened on his skin.  
“W-would you like to jump off the big rock?” Castiel asked, at a loss for what to say now.  
“Um. No, you go. I’m staying here.”  
Castiel’s eyes flickered back to the bank, then to Dean, starting to swim over. He turned back every few strokes, glad to see Dean was following behind. Castiel stopped in the shallows, before his hips passed the waterline. Dean hung back, water still at his shoulders. He gave a half-hearted smile, and Castiel pressed on, clambering out of the pool and onto the rock, cool rain like a caress on his bare skin.  
He had only taken a few steps out of the water before remembering himself and passing a hand in front of his crotch, resisting giving himself a tiny squeeze. He let out a sigh, trying to think of something disgusting, offputting. Something to distract from the fact that Dean was watching him climb a rock, in the rain, naked, with a developing erection.  
Looking down, he instead found that he could hardly see Dean through the rain, which meant Dean could hardly see him. He wasn’t sure if that was good or not. He gave himself a moment, let the sensations in his lower half ease. He waited until his mind was clear and his stiffness was far less prominent, before he took the last few steps upward.  
With another sigh, he stood at the tip of the rock and raised his arms, calculating for only a moment before leaping hands-first and twisting as he fell, plunging like a line into the water. The band of the surface swallowed his skin with a wash of warmer liquid, taking all burden off his limbs and letting him feel weightless once more. He curved his back and swam upward to the surface, grinning to himself, happy about his first ever dive. He hummed a broken note as he began to swim hand-over-head toward where he had left Dean, the other man’s slim frame becoming clear through the haze of falling rain.  
Dean smirked at him as he got closer. “I almost saw that,” he said, shaking his head side-to-side and spraying fine droplets of rain across Castiel’s face.  
“One day I shall be as graceful as a swan,” Castiel determined, holding his arms out to his sides like stretching wings.  
“You’re not so bad. You’re kind of a duck at the moment.”  
Castiel laughed and pounced on him, but Dean shimmied away with a bark of amusement, wading toward the bank, water sloshing around his hips. Castiel leapt after him, hands over his shoulders, pressing Dean down with his weight over him. For a second he felt his skin pressed tightly against Dean, cool and slippy with water - but then the cool gave way to a heat, a flash of arousal at the touch - not his own, but Dean’s. Castiel slid partly off Dean’s back, the grip of his hands falling only a short way before Dean flared with a sudden anger, whole body tensing. He turned around and shoved Castiel away from him, sending him scooting back in the water.  
“Don’t _touch_ me, Cas!” he growled, chest heaving as he breathed heavily.  
Castiel only hung there in the water, feet just grazing the sand on the floor of the pool. He knew his face was blatantly displaying his shock, upset at the sudden change in behaviour.  
Dean saw this and softened his glare, eyes rounded as he ran his hands frantically through his hair, never dropping his gaze from Castiel’s. “I’m - I’m sorry, Cas, it’s just...” he licked his lips, beads of raindrops slipping inside his mouth. He shook his head, at a loss for words. He dragged himself the last few steps to the bank, pulling himself onto the grass, heaving his weight onto his arms and throwing a leg up to stand. He made to walk away, but instead turned around and plonked down on the grass, a pace or so from the edge.  
Castiel swam to the bank, hands on the ledge, grass and loose mud slipping on his hands. He tried to pull himself up like Dean, only getting his torso over the top before grunting and falling forward, then scrambling the rest of the way with kicking legs stirring up the water behind him.  
Dean chuckled, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs, doing nothing to help him. Castiel managed it, a knee in the grass and mud smearing over his thighs and hands as he clawed his way onto land. He sighed as he dragged himself onto his hands and knees, twisting around and sitting on the edge, legs in the water, buttocks sinking into the grass.  
They didn’t speak for a while. Castiel heard the coo of a bird through the rain, and spent some time trying again to whistle. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he managed a single note of sound, immediately losing the ability as he startled. Dean laughed, muttering encouragement.  
A few more times Castiel tried, and eventually managed it, finding one, two, three long notes. None of which were birdsong, but all of which were pleasing for Castiel to hear.  
Only a few more minutes, starting to shiver in the falling rain, and he worked out how to change the note on purpose, adjusting his tongue and his lips, tipping his head up and down. When Dean gave his blackbird impression again, Castiel copied, then was unable to continue as his face had split into a wide smile. It took a while of prodding his own face before he could relax it enough to whistle once more.  
“You’re such a freak, Cas,” Dean said, grinning.  
Castiel turned to his left, only a little way behind him, to see Dean shivering too, skin shiny with water still. “I hope you mean that as a good thing.”  
Dean nodded gently. “All the best people are freaks.”  
“Then I will take it as a good thing.”  
He turned back to the pool, tipping his head back and keeping on with his whistling. Dean only sat and listened, but a few moments later it became clear that he was thinking while he did so. Castiel thought it rude to intrude on his thoughts, but they were so hard to ignore when they were so clear, and so obviously directed at him, even if the openness was an accident.  
 _Should I tell him? Like, now? Blurt it out, go on, like the idiot you are. Just say it._  
Castiel dared not turn around, nor stop whistling, his curiosity piqued now that he knew Dean was thinking about him. He tried to shut off the part of him that could hear the thoughts, but the words were like a beacon of light in darkness - without that focus, Castiel’s mind was lost in the rain, and he felt like he was drowning. The thoughts were there, and he had no choice but to accept them into his mind.  
 _But Jesus, what do I even say? I jerked off to thoughts of you. I had my cock in my hand, and I was thinking about you. Dammit. Fuck. God you’re so sexy naked. Shut up. Oh my God, this is so stupid._  
Castiel had to turn his head away so Dean wouldn’t see his eyes widen or hear his breath catch. Nor his hands tightening on the edge of the bank, or his toes curling in the water.  
 _I want to suck you off. I want to touch you. I think about you taking your clothes off all the time. God I want to kiss you so badly. Say it, Dean, just say it._  
Castiel felt himself getting excited again, and realised he had stopped whistling, only staring out blankly over the pool, rain washing down his face, ignored.  
“D... Dean?”  
 _I imagined you whispering my name like that when I came last night._  
“Dean...” Castiel turned back to look at the other man, swallowing. Dean’s face was impassive; if Castiel hadn’t heard the voice so clearly in his head, he never would have imagined that Dean was thinking such things. “Dean, you are thinking very... very loudly.”  
Dean’s eyes widened, spine stiffening. The hand clamped around his own crossed leg curled, digging white circles into his skin.  
“I can hear everything.”  
“O-oh.”  
Castiel let out a shaky breath. “If it’s any consolation... I... also...”  
Dean’s eyes met his, swallowing very hard. “You...?”  
“I was thinking about you last night. When I was...”  
“Oh my God,” Dean breathed, hand pushed to his forehead in shame. Eyes closed, hand still pressed over them, he shook his head. Castiel didn’t know what he meant by it, so turned away, also humiliated.  
“I never meant to let you know,” Castiel muttered, speaking out to the rain-shattered pool, but sure Dean could hear him. “I don’t think you were meaning me to know, either. I couldn’t help but hear, please forgive me for that.”  
“I’m not gonna forgive you, Cas,” Dean replied, and Castiel’s stomach clenched. This was another moment, just like yesterday. Dean was going to throw him away like one of his servants, too shamed to allow their company any longer.  
Castiel dropped his head to his chest, closing his eyes against the torrent of water that ran into them.  
“Cas?”  
“Yes?” Castiel said weakly.  
“Are you still listening to my thoughts?”  
“It was unavoidable, I didn’t mean―”  
“Cas, just... listen to them. I’m thinking right at you.”  
Castiel sighed through his nose, fingertips spread on his forehead. When Dean stopped talking, the wave of empty airspace flooded back, and Castiel focused on the incoming Dean-thought. There was only one.  
 _Kiss me._  
Castiel’s eyes flicked open as his head straightened up. He swerved his head to see Dean looking back at him, expression open and hopeful. Castiel didn’t need telling twice. He swung his legs out of the pool, closing the space between the two of them in less than a second. His mouth was already open as his lips met Dean’s.  
Their kiss was wet and sloppy this time, hands slipping over skin and resting wherever they stilled, through hair for the most part, over shoulders and rounding each other’s arms, Dean’s legs parting and allowing Castiel to fall between them, his weight pressing Dean down into the grass.  
Dean gasped, a foot sliding away and spreading his legs further, their hips coming together and bumping at the bones. Their bodies were hot and slick together, hardness pressed between their legs, Castiel already there, Dean just getting started.  
Castiel rutted forward experimentally, and Dean’s head tipped back into the green of the grass, gasping long and low, throat exposed to the man on top of him. Castiel took the opportunity to press his nose into his skin, running his lips feather-light over the shade of stubble there. Dean whimpered, hands sliding smoothly down Castiel’s back, fingers pressed down into his firm muscles. As his hand slid lower, Castiel began to tremble, anticipating wholly where Dean’s hand was taking him. Dean’s palm found Castiel’s ass, rolling it under his spread fingers, Castiel rocking with the movement.  
Dean stuttered on a gasp, “H-holy shit, do that again, do it again,” he muttered. Castiel braced a hand in the mud beside Dean’s head, the other on Dean’s hipbone, hand cupped over the muscle - and he thrusted, cock finding the side of Dean’s and shifting together, making them both grunt under their breath.  
Castiel was tingling from head to toe, heat focused between his legs and up through his chest, his fingers twinged with the need to touch, to have some part of Dean to hold, to have in his hand. He leant down for another kiss, tongue rolling against Dean’s like fighting animals, lashing out and swiping at each other, dragging along the side. He tasted so much like the Earth, like the whole planet boiled down to a single person, and that person was Dean: the sun, the moon, the wind in the trees, every beautiful thing in Limn’mere.  
“Dean,” Castiel groaned, rutting once more, starting a rhythm that Dean bucked into randomly, sending sudden shocks of pleasure along every nerve that Castiel possessed.  
“Oh God, say my name again,” Dean whispered, a deep whine below his husky voice, the words pushed into Castiel’s ear, lips dragging on his skin.  
Castiel hummed a low note, eyes closed as he tangled a hand in Dean’s hair, loving the feel of it, wet beneath his fingers. He leaned forward and pressed a single kiss to Dean’s lips, dragging his bottom lip through his stubble as he moved his mouth to Dean’s waiting ear. He breathed up against him, focus drifting as they thrust together again, then coming back as he bent his head down. On impulse, he gently nipped Dean’s earlobe between his teeth, enjoying the tiny mewl that got, before he positively _growled_ into Dean’s ear, “Dean Winchester.” Slowly. Like it was a filthy, dirty word.  
Dean sighed, suddenly and frantically pressing kisses along Castiel’s jaw, hand back to running through his fallen angel’s hair, the other sliding up and down his back, moving with their thrusts.  
Castiel moaned abruptly, then rose back to kneeling, eyes taking in the sight of Dean with his legs apart below him as he pulled backwards.  
“Where’re you going?” Dean asked, groping for Castiel to tug him back.  
“Nowhere,” Castiel replied, leaning forward again to fill Dean’s questioning mouth with another rolling kiss, nodding his head back, loose and undulating. Dean let out a second-long moan, huffing a breath and chasing Castiel’s lips forward as Castiel sat back on his haunches again.  
He only wanted to look at Dean, naked and aroused and wanting _Castiel_.  
Half of Dean’s face quirked into a tiny grin, leaning back on his elbows. His gaze dropped to Castiel’s lap, where he moved his hand, fist curled around his length. Dean was thicker than he was, sat a little differently against Dean’s hip. His foreskin was cut, same as Castiel’s - Dean’s cockhead was red and swollen, a pearl of liquid beading at the tip while it went untouched.  
Castiel showed Dean mercy, reaching a hand to take hold of him, wrapping his fingers across raised veins, feeling the flesh pulse in his hand; Dean’s head fell back against his shoulders, letting out a tiny groan of relief. Castiel purred a reply deep in his throat, sidling forward on his knees, thighs apart.  
He pressed his legs underneath Dean’s as he lay in front of him, their members level with each other. Castiel leaned forward a few inches, letting them both slip into the same hand, closing a wide fist around them both together.  
“Oh, Jesus,” Dean breathed out, watching as Castiel began to move his hand, pumping them as one. “Caaaaas,” Dean grunted, teeth bared.  
“Do you like that?” Castiel asked, realising Dean’s pupils were blown so wide that he hardly had any green around them at all.  
“Yes.” Dean snorted gently. “ _Yes_.”  
Castiel shuffled forward again - of course, with all the grace of a duck - falling across Dean’s body once more and keeping up the swift jerk of his hand, this time with their hips clashing, rubbing, right along with his slipping hand.  
“Is this different to how it is with a woman?” Castiel asked him, voice deeper than he’d ever known it. It was almost unrecognisable.  
“Yeah. Ye- yeah, miles different. It’s - oh, fuck―” Dean grunted, seemingly less able to hold a continuous thought than Castiel was. “God, this is better, this is so much better. Don’t stop,” he begged, trying to stop his eyes rolling back as he locked them to Castiel’s, his lips parted and wet. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he whispered, finally collapsing back to the grass, pushing his hips into Castiel’s waiting hand.  
“But I don’t know what I’m doing,” Castiel admitted, leaning over Dean and pressing his whole body onto him, thighs grazing both of Dean’s as he ground against him, forced to remove his hand.  
“D-don’t care, you’re - _uhh_ \- you’re doing great, Cas - mmmnnnhh...!”  
Their testicles bumped and nudged at each other, dragged between their bodies as Castiel upped the pace, a hand now under one of Dean’s thighs as he aimed for a different angle. Sweat was lost amidst the mist of rain that fell against them, feet grounded in the grass and the wet dirt. Castiel was covered in smears of mud, and a fast glance between their bodies had him realise that Dean was too; smudged brown and wet.  
“Oh, Cas!” Dean barked, bucking sharply upward. He opened his eyes and scrambled for Castiel’s hair, dragging a hand to rest on the back of his neck. His eyes were almost delirious as he held them to Castiel’s, focus intense. Castiel felt waves upon waves of exhilaration tumble through him, knowing how much pleasure Dean must be feeling right now, knowing he was the one causing it. Dean must be close to his peak - his bucking was becoming more erratic, his tiny gasps more pronounced and randomised.  
Castiel held his breath and waited for it to come, never ceasing his rutting against the other man, hand drawing patterns in the wet hair on Dean’s thigh. He held Dean’s head in his other hand, like a support, his only support, as he climbed closer to his climax.  
“Cas - Cas,” Dean whispered, eyes tracking between Castiel’s eyes and lips, nodding his chin once to indicate he was trying to kiss him - Castiel obliged, closing his eyes and turning his head to press shaking lips to Dean’s, breathing out on his cheek, hearing a quiet wail from Dean as they touched lips - Dean froze, jerking once more before shivering and falling half-limp in his arms. Castiel pulled his lips away to meet with half-hooded eyes, cheeks flushed red even in the cool of the rain.  
Castiel couldn’t stop his thrusting, he was too close now. He was surprised when another hand took hold of his erection for him, but didn’t fight it, only leaned into the touch.  
“ _Dean_ ,” he hissed, hearing the replying sound, somewhere between a grunt and a whine.  
The thumb that twisted over his slit was what ended it for him, a ribbon of white pouring from him in an instant, coating Dean’s hand, dribbling across his wrist. Dean looked back up to Castiel afterwards, eyes shocked, lips parted and swollen.  
Castiel could only gasp: the only warning that Dean got before Castiel collapsed on top of him, Dean wheezing at the sudden weight. Castiel rolled off him, spreading out on the cold grass beside him, wet stalks soothing the heated skin of his back.  
Dean breathed heavily, hand reaching to twist in his own hair as he looked at the tree canopy dripping above them - then jerked his hand away with a quiet outcry, glaring at his sticky hand.  
Castiel rumbled a laugh, watching him wipe it hastily on the grass. Dean looked over at him, face expressionless until his eyes found Castiel’s, then his mouth curled into an effortless smile.  
“Oh, man.”  
“Yes.”  
“What in God’s name did we just do?” Dean wondered, staring wild-eyed at the trees again.  
“Something very bad,” Castiel conceded. “Very, very bad.”  
“That was so, totally wrong.” Dean was on the edge of worry, but his voice still bordered on extreme satisfaction.  
“We’re going to Hell,” Castiel concluded.  
“It’s a straight road. One-way ticket. We’re on the highway to Hell.” Dean gaped open-mouthed, blindly looking upward, not moving from his position on his back, legs still slightly apart.  
“It’s going to be a very long, pleasurable road,” Castiel added. “I think we should enjoy it while it lasts.”  
“Of course. Yeah. That’s... sensible. Once is just as bad as twice.”  
“Or three times.”  
Dean blinked. “Ten times.”  
Castiel looked back over to him, smiling. “Fifty.”  
“Hundred. Twice a day every day for a year. For ten years. Twenty.”  
Castiel frowned slightly, not sure how long Dean was honestly willing to spend on him. “Are you joking now?”  
Dean swallowed, turning his head to face Castiel, only a hand-span’s worth of grass between them. “I don’t... I don’t think I am, Cas.” He seemed quite stunned at the prospect, but curiously comfortable.  
“You actually want to do this again? With me?”  
Dean nodded, slowly, mud dragging on his cheek. “We’d get better at it, less... sloppy.”  
Castiel wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Nobody can ever know.”  
“Except Gabe and Missouri and Pamela and Andy and Death and Cupid, ‘course not.” Dean spoke in a flurry, then paused before laughing, eyes closing. “Oh God, who are we kidding. This is... stupid.”  
“There does seem to be very little logic in it.”  
“No, I mean - this whole thing.” Dean sat up on his elbow, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You know we can’t, right? It’s like a game. A really, stupid, messed-up game.”  
Castiel sat up completely, swivelling to sit sideways and look at Dean. “Please don’t tell me you’re changing your mind again―”  
“I never decided this, Cas. I never expected this to happen, I didn’t even know people could _do_ this kind of thing. It was just a - a stupid thing that happened, and―”  
“No, Dean. Stop it, stop talking. It happened because we both wanted it to happen, and so long as we both still want it - which I know we do, don’t bother denying―”  
“I don’t―”  
“ _No_ , Dean. The only part of this that’s a game, is the part where you play games with yourself, not letting yourself feel what your mind, your heart - any part of you, you’re ignoring what it says.”  
Dean huffed and sat up, then stood up, not bothering to wash the mud off himself before shoving his shirt over his head, then reaching for his discarded breeches. Castiel stood beside him, trying to wipe mud from his hands, pointlessly.  
“Dean... I know how you feel. You know how you feel. It’s ridiculous to try to believe it’s not what it is, just because you’re too stubborn to admit it.”  
“What is it that you want me to admit to, exactly?” Dean growled, forcing his trousers over his now-muddy breeches and buttoning them.  
“That you feel―” _love_ , “―feelings. Sexual, romantic, I don’t know. Feelings. Towards me.”  
“I don’t feel anything, I’m dead inside,” Dean retorted, and Castiel was almost hurt at how close he came to believing him.  
“You’re not dead inside, Dean.” And Castiel stepped forward to wrap his arms around Dean’s shoulders, a warm, naked-to-clothed embrace, that Dean didn’t pull away from at first. Castiel nosed his way against his throat, lips finding Dean’s and twisting into them, gentler than they’d kissed before, warmth in every touch.  
Then Dean grimaced, pushing Castiel away gently. “I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while. I get that we’ll probably end up coming out here anyway, for picnics or whatever, but... I need to know that whatever we’re both feeling right now, it’s not just some... spur of the moment thing. It’s gonna go away after a while, you’ll see.” Dean looked Castiel in the eye, steely and determined.  
“Dean―”  
“Please, Cas. Just a few days.”  
“Dean, it’s real, it’s―”  
“ _Cas_.”  
Castiel backed down, taking a step back and swinging his arms back to his sides. “Fine.”  
“In a few days, when we’ve both realised how stupid this all is, I’ll get Gabe to send you a message or something.” Dean shook his head as he spoke, straightening Sabbath’s scabbard at his belt. “I’ll go on ahead to the castle, you come back when you’re all cleaned up. Here,” Dean offered, placing Castiel’s ring in his muddy palm. “Stay outta trouble, okay?”  
Castiel nodded glumly. “Okay.”  
Dean nodded, and with a gentle pat on the side of Castiel’s bare arm, he fetched Chevrolet and climbed on her back, and without another look back, he left the clearing.  
Ha.  
Castiel found his trouser pocket and dropped the ring in, setting the clothes back on the ground.  
Well, at least Castiel knew one thing: no matter what Dean said, Castiel had one up on him.  
Castiel knew when Dean was lying. And not one word of Dean’s request was free of the lie: Dean wanted Cas, and he knew it wasn’t stopping. A few days apart would be pointless agony.  
Tonight, Castiel was going to add another reason to the list of reasons why he was going to Hell.  
~  
Lucifer clopped wetly into the stables, rain still pouring off his sides by the time Castiel veered him into his stall. He shook himself down like a dog as soon as Castiel dismounted, and sent Castiel falling back against the wall behind him with a surprised squawk. Muttering under his breath, Castiel picked up a cloth and rubbed Lucifer down, ignoring the irritated whinnies and fretful stomping that his horse gave.  
“Stop complaining, it’s perfectly warm in here. And you’re a horse, you’re always too hot anyway.”  
Lucifer snickered and rolled his head to the side, thumping his cheek on Castiel’s back. Castiel narrowed his eyes and went to stand in front of him.  
 _I mean you, you mindless cretin._  
“I’m fine, Lucifer. I don’t get cold.” Castiel pulled away and set down the cloth, straightening his horse’s saddle on its perch. “Besides, I have a fire in my room.”  
Lucifer snorted and turned his head away, pretty much his equivalent of turning his nose up at Castiel and all his cluelessness.  
As Castiel patted his muzzle and left the stall, he had to admit, he was shivering. That was because his clothes were chilled and wet - he’d be inside soon, and he’d be fine. On his way through, he passed Chevy’s stall, and she whinnied at him. Smiling, Castiel went to say hello.  
She ignored his greeting and instead cut to the chase, neighing loudly.  
“Yes, thank you, Chevy,” Castiel intoned, tickling one of her ears. “Although I’m sure it would have happened without your final nudge.” She bared her teeth at him, and he couldn’t help but grin back. “It was very pleasurable, yes.”  
She knocked him back into the aisle, and he kept on walking, now quite desperate for something warm around his hands that didn’t make him feel like he was solidifying. He was forced to pause one final time, however.  
To his right, in the final stall of the long line of horse boxes, stood a quiet, short little horse. A mare, ginger-coloured, her coat dull - not sleek and shiny like Chevy’s or Lucifer’s. Her mane and tail were a pale yellow, and she looked very sad.  
Castiel hesitated. There was something very empty about her, and he felt wary about approaching. But he did anyway, because he couldn’t ignore that pull he felt toward her. She had seen him speaking to the other horses, and she wanted to talk.  
“Hello,” he said, a gentle, cold, hand raised. She barely nudged her feet forward, but met his palm with a soft muzzle, huge nostrils flaring either side of his hand. He stepped the rest of the way and slid his hand down her neck, resting it on her shoulder. She was only small in stature, her ears only just passing his chin. She was quite tubby, clearly well-fed.  
The horse said nothing, not even when Castiel looked into her mind, reaching and probing a question. She only stared, hazel eyes wide with despair. He found himself sharing her sadness, not knowing why.  
Closing his eyes, he probed deeper. He was on the edge of using angel magic; there was a border between where his own mind could reach, and he was on the line. One step further and he would be breaking his promise to Dean. He still found nothing, not even a voice. She was empty inside. Only her emotion bled into him, and it swelled with pain the deeper he got.  
Oh, there! There it was. He’d found it.  
Not emotional pain - physical; deep and embedded in her flesh. Undetectable, without any consequence.  
“You’re sick,” he said out loud, eyebrows raising over his closed eyes. She whimpered, a quiet whine from deep in her throat.  
Castiel toed the line, trying to specify what he’d just discovered. It was a pulse, a swelling mass inside her flank. It was painful, but the pain was all over, creeping into the creature’s mind as well. Her voice was stifled by it.  
“I cannot help you,” Castiel admitted, eyes locking to the horse’s, regret in his every word. “I could perhaps find another angel that would, but...”  
The horse looked like she was about to cry.  
“None of the others can understand you,” Castiel realised. “I’m the only one.”  
She stepped forward and pressed the length of her nose and forehead into his chest, ears flicking in time with his beating heart. Castiel smoothed his chilled fingers down her neck, trying to soothe her.  
“I made a promise, I can’t...”  
 _Unless it was necessary._  
Without his help, the horse would die. In a few days time, maybe months, but she would. Her sickness was leeching and seeping into her blood, and it was terminal.  
“Don’t tell anyone,” he told her. He craned his neck to look at her from her own height. “Nobody can know that I helped you.”  
Then he smiled sadly, because she had nobody to tell. She was riderless, cast aside when she stopped running so fast. Why had they not killed her already? Castiel knew what they did to old horses - they were killed for dog meat. It was cruel, yes, but resourceful. Maybe someone cared for her enough to save her, like Castiel found he did now.  
“Try not to move, I’ll see what I can do for you,” Castiel said, straightening up again, pressing a hand to either side of her wide head. She blinked slowly, then closed her eyes as Castiel began to flow inside her body with his mind, like an estuary joining the sea.  
Castiel felt very much like a horse. He felt four legs, he felt his tail tickling his haunches. He felt the memory of running, of galloping over fields, twisting through trees like Lucifer; he saw the journey through the eyes of the steed, calculating and precise as she leapt over logs, wading through deep puddles. Being a horse was fun!  
But the pain shot through him as he strode on his hooves - on _her_ hooves. He could feel a lump, deep inside him, rubbing his flesh and making him sore. He grabbed hold of it before he lost it, and he felt it in his hand, soft and fleshy but hard like a rock; completely out of place. He heard a distant scream, the screech of a pained horse. He knew he was hurting her, but he had to work quickly.  
In his mind, he cut around it like a woven shape in a tapestry, pulling the shadow from the flesh. Blood poured between his fingers, trickling hot down his arm; he felt her pain like he felt his own coldness, bare human toes freezing on the stable floor. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to his knees, the sound of a snorting horse and clopping hooves next to him.  
“Bailey! Bailey, come, come,” Castiel heard, a male voice, older - he knew that voice. As his vision swam closer, he realised it was the voice of Colton, the stable manager. He was speaking to the horse.  
Castiel took a shuddering breath, seeing the palomino colouring of Bailey’s chest, muscles stuttering up and down as she paced on the spot. Castiel cleared his throat, shaking the fuzz from his mind. Then he stood up, a warm hand falling on his shoulder.  
“What did you do to her?” Colton asked, his head a foot lower than Castiel’s, grey hair mussed and lumpen nose red from the cold.  
“I healed her, or most of her―”  
“Healed?”  
Castiel held up his hand, showing Colton the blood that covered his hand, pooling in the middle of his palm. Rolling down from his caked fingernails, was a mound of flesh, paling as the blood seeped from it. It looked like a tiny misshapen brain, the size of a bean.  
“It was killing her,” Castiel told the horse man.  
Colton breathed, a hand resting on Bailey’s nose. “Oh.”  
Castiel looked Bailey up and down, her neck muscles tight, but her mouth open and snorting; her voice was stronger now, but still reeling in pain. “She will hurt for a long while, but there is nothing else I can do for her, not now. Let her rest.”  
“C-can I get you a towel or something?” Colton asked, gesturing at Castiel’s bloody hand.  
Castiel looked at the red that was draining onto his skin, curling rivulets like a twist down his pale arms. “No, thank you. I will deal with it myself. Take... take good care of her.”  
“I will.”  
Castiel left, walking back into the onslaught of cold rain, falling soft on his damp shirt, re-soaking it. The blood dripping onto the ground was washed away as he made his way to the castle, but even as he reached the door to his building, there was still red ingrained under his fingernails, where he had scraped inside the horse.  
He hadn’t known it would be like that; having done the job with his mind, he had expected the proceeds to be bloodied in his mind, not over his hand. But still, it was a job well done. He had felt the relief the horse felt as he had fallen back, the knowledge that the problem had been pulled from her, torn away, leaving her as she was meant to be: just a horse.  
His legs were seizing with cold as he climbed the stairs to his room, eyelids drooping. His chest was tight and bones heavy, and his vision was wavering as he struggled to locate the handle to his bedroom door. He needed rest. Healing was completely exhausting.  
He fell to his knees in front of the fire grate, raking a hand through the ash that lay cool in the centre. With a shaking hand, he dragged wood from the pile at the side; made a clumsy tent shape. He went for the flints, but after a minute or so of helpless striking, found it impossible.  
He was too exhausted, too cold, too wet. He was chilled to the bone, and losing consciousness.  
He lay down on the floor, smelling the blood on his hands, the mud on his face from rolling naked in the grass with Dean. His clothes were pasted to his skin, and he was shivering violently.  
Everything went out with a _click_ of sound, and blackness surrounded him.  
It was some time, a flurry of half-dreams later, all of which involved green eyes, a palomino horse, and a raging, burning fire that lashed at his skin - he was shrugged onto his back by a full, strong pair of hands, and slapped in the face.  
“Castiel!”  
“Guhh...”  
“Castiel wake up, what on Earth have you been doing?”  
“Cupid?”  
“Are you all right, pet? Goodness. Did you start this fire?”  
Castiel blinked and looked up into the chubby face of Cupid, a frown between his thick eyebrows. Cupid nodded toward Castiel’s left, and Castiel turned over to see a blackness that spread from the fireplace, logs rolled away from the pile he’d made, burnt floorboards radiating from the middle.  
“I... fell asleep,” Castiel said, squinting at the mess he’d made. “It didn’t light...”  
“Well apparently it did,” Cupid said, rolling Castiel’s limp body into his arms, tugging him up to sitting with a grunt. “Why are you soaking wet?”  
“Dean and I were in the forest.”  
“In the rain? Oh honey, you _knew_ it was going to rain, and you didn’t take a cloak?”  
“A little rain never hurt me,” Castiel said, wobbling to his feet as Cupid tried to help him. “Dean didn’t take any―” he broke off his sentence to cough, a hollow sound that burned his windpipe. He gasped for air after.  
Cupid shook his head, unimpressed. “You’re meant to take care of him, sweet. If you knew it was going to rain, you pack him a cloak too.”  
“I didn’t think―”  
“Exactly. Clothes off,” he ordered, and Castiel realised he’d been directed to the washroom.  
Castiel sat down heavily on the stool by the wooden bath, watching with half-closed eyes as Cupid filled it with steaming water with a simple flick of his hand. “Clothes off, I said,” Cupid repeated, forcing Castiel back to his feet.  
Then Cupid gasped. “Why’re you covered in _blood?_ ”  
Castiel looked down at his hand, still caked in dark red granules of horse blood, sunken into his fingernails and criss-crossing tiny lines in the grooves of his palm. “I used my power.”  
Cupid took him forcefully by the shoulders, staring at him. “You - did - _what?_ ”  
“I - I used it to heal a sick horse. She was going to die... Her name is Bailey,” he added, flopping around as Cupid wrenched his wet shirt off his chest with a peeved sigh.  
“Castiel, would you also like to tell me why you are covered in _mud?_ ” Cupid prodded Castiel’s pallid chest, Castiel wavering under even that slight pressure. “And... is this...?”  
Castiel looked down at the white smear on his lower stomach that Cupid was frowning at. “Semen.”  
Cupid grimaced, shoving Castiel back a step so he fell into the bath with his legs sticking out, sloshing hot water over the sides. It was a relief, feeling heat on him. His muscles twitched, and he pulled his legs into the bath too, sinking his head under the water and rubbing at his hair.  
“Is there anything else stuck to you, or are we all set?” Cupid asked, sitting on the stool and reaching for a bottle of hair lotion.  
“I think that was it.”  
“Care to tell me what you’ve been doing?”  
Castiel looked down at his legs, hair matted with semi-dry mud. He rubbed it away as he spoke, trying to hold back a cough. “Dean and I were naked together.”  
He could practically feel Cupid restraining an eye roll, smiling instead. “Spare the details, but do tell.”  
“We...” Castiel considered his words. He wasn’t even sure what they’d done. He pulled his hands out of the water, holding one palm flat towards the ceiling, the other placed palm-down over the top. “We rubbed together, like this.” And he rubbed his hands against each other, the top one moving, the bottom one with its fingers spread apart into two. “I was between Dean’s legs.”  
Cupid’s hands had stopped massaging lotion into Castiel’s hair, stunned into silence for a few seconds. “You can put your hands down now, I get the picture.”  
Castiel dropped his hands back into the water with a splash. “It was very nice.”  
“I’ll bet.”  
Castiel rinsed the lather from his hair, then washed his feet free of mud and grit, feeling his exhaustion exuding out into the water. He felt better, but still tired. He coughed again, finding it unpleasant.  
“Cupid...?” He felt something else building in him, centring behind his nose. He wriggled it, frowning. His eye twitched, feeling it tickle, then tickle some more. Then he lurched forward with an indescribable cry, something inhuman that forced a spray from his nose. “Cupid! What’s happening to me?!” He scrambled backwards, feet slipping across the bottom of the bath, water sloshing over the top.  
Cupid chuckled, then grinned, then almost fell off his stool as he laughed. “Aha-ha! Oh Castiel, you absolute sweetheart!” He fell forward again, hand on his stomach. He wiped a tiny tear from his eye, smile wobbling. “You sneezed, you poor baby.”  
“Sneezed?” Castiel repeated, mouth agape in horror.  
“People do that when they’re sick.”  
“ _Sick?!_ ”  
“Serves you right for going out naked in the rain.”  
“Cupid, no! I can’t be sick, I’m... I need to...!”  
“Need to what, pet? Here, let me dry you off, come here.”  
“No, no!” Castiel struggled against the towel that Cupid scrubbed roughly over his hair, twisting away. He glared at Cupid for a few seconds, then took the towel and stood up. “I can do it myself, I’m not a baby.”  
“If you did everything yourself, I’d be out of a job,” Cupid said offhandedly, picking up wet clothes from the floor.  
“You need to make me better, Cupid. I can’t be sick tonight, I have to―” he stopped talking, glancing to Cupid. “I have to go to Dean. And _be_ with him. And...”  
“I don’t want to know,” Cupid said, handing Castiel a clean pair of breeches without sparing him a glance. “Your love life is far too much your own thing.”  
Castiel shucked on his breeches, tying the drawstring. “I can do it by myself, Cupid. Dean can do everything himself, so so can I.”  
“Dean has servants, silly.”  
“No he doesn’t, not any more,” Castiel told him, his own arms around his torso as he held back another chesty cough. “He was too intimate with them, and now... he can’t see them again.”  
Cupid turned back from his piles of laundry, his face fallen, and looked the taller man in the eye. “Oh, honey,” Cupid said sadly. “You really think he’d do that to you?”  
Castiel looked away, to the door of the washroom, which had been left open a crack. There was a knocking from the next room. “Someone is at the door.”  
Cupid sighed gently, setting down an armful of clothes on the wooden bench at the side of the room. Then he went to answer the door, leaving Castiel alone in the washroom. Grey light clouded one half of the small room, the rest of it a warm ochre, even without candles. He heard voices from the next room, recognising Gabriel.  
He paced to the washroom door, poking his head out. “Gabriel?”  
“Hey bro, saw your horse in the stable, came to say hi. God, you look as bad as Dean,” he muttered, looking the half-naked Castiel up and down. “He has one hell of a headcold, you should hear him coughing. Sounds like a dragon giving birth.”  
Castiel’s face curled into a half-smile, then fell as he realised that meant both he and Dean were sick. Well, that put more than a slight damper on his plans for tonight.  
Gabriel sauntered forward and shoved Castiel back into the washroom, Cupid following. “You got something to wear tonight?” he asked, backing Castiel right up against the bathtub.  
“How did you know―”  
“Word gets around fast, especially when your manservant is as eager to share your sinful little love life as a gossiping nun.”  
Cupid seethed at Gabriel’s back, and Gabriel smirked. Castiel sat down on the stool again, feeling his legs wobble. “Cupid has to make us both feel better, or it’ll ruin everything.”  
“We’ll see, poppet,” Cupid said, going to organise laundry again. “I like to see you suffer.”  
Castiel smiled, because he didn’t really.  
Gabriel cleared his throat, sweeping his hand in a circle. “How about this?” He wove a shirt in mid-air, bright orange.  
“That is foul.”  
“I dunno, might offset your eyes,” Gabriel teased, holding the floating shirt under Castiel’s chin. “How about green?” The shirt flickered, and became a bright, acid green, of the kind of luminescence Castiel had never seen before.  
“It looks like an exotic bird threw up on it,” Castiel critiqued. Gabriel grinned heartily.  
“Royal purple?” he asked, switching the colour with a click of his fingers. “Sunflower yellow? How about pink, might match your cheeks when you’re screaming in the throes of passion.”  
Castiel huffed and dropped his chin, realising the pink probably did match his cheeks when he blushed like that. “I doubt I will really be wearing clothes for all that long.”  
Gabriel smirked his approval. “Ickle fallen angel’s all grown up, aww.”  
Castiel looked up at him hopefully. “Make it blue.”  
“Now we’re talking,” Gabriel said, holding the shirt at Castiel’s height by his side, turning it a stunning twilight blue. Castiel beamed.  
“Hmm, let’s see.” Gabriel considered the linen with a curled hand on his chin. “Long or short sleeves?”  
Castiel glanced at his bare, finely-muscled arms, thinking. “Long, rolled to the elbow.”  
“Nice choice,” Cupid said from the other side of the room. “Half-sleeves. Very nice.”  
“A few buttons, I think,” Gabriel said, placing gold-rimmed blue buttons down the front - completely useless, as it was a pull-over V-neck, but they looked pleasant.  
“Thank you,” Castiel said, taking the soft material as it was handed to him.  
“What else? Fancy underwear? I can do you something skimpy―”  
“No, no thank you,” Castiel said hurriedly, clutching the shirt to his bare chest, coughing gruffly. “Maybe some trousers...?”  
Gabriel cocked an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, here we go...” He drew stripes of cloth through the air, an off-white creamy colour, made from heavy material.  
Without another word, he threw them across the room and had them wrap over Castiel’s face with a slap of fabric. “Thank you again,” Castiel said, muffled under his new clothes.  
“You’re welcome, Cas.”  
Castiel pulled the trousers off his head. “Only Dean ever called me Cas before you.”  
“It’s catching.”  
“In case you were wondering,” Castiel growled at him, “no, I don’t mind.”  
“Sweet.”  
“Well, put them on, dear, let’s see how they look on you!” Cupid said, gesturing with both hands for Castiel to stand up. Gabriel nodded his head sideways to Cupid, and they left the washroom, giving Castiel some space.  
Castiel held the shirt up in front of him, pleased with how the two sides of the collar flopped apart with a kind of gentle elegance. He turned it around and pressed it to his chest, smoothing a hand down it. It wasn’t linen, and it wasn’t cotton or silk, but it was very soft under his hand.  
He pulled it on, feeling straight away how well it fit. It was snug around his waist, fitting to his muscles, but loose enough that it was comfortable. He held down a smile as he realised he could see the points of his nipples under the material.  
The trousers were harder to pull on; they were heavy and clumpy - but once he got them straight around his legs, they slipped over him and he could tie them at the waist with the rope belt that was folded into the top. Hm. They were very tight across the crotch.  
He shuffled out of the washroom, knowing eyes were going to be on him, judging his body. He knew he looked good, but... he tried not to let it go to his head when both Cupid and Gabriel’s faces split into cheerful smiles as they set eyes on him.  
“Ahh, that’s perfect. He’ll want to rip those right off you,” Gabriel said with a sideways smirk.  
Castiel shifted from one foot to the other, biting his tongue to keep down a deep cough that tickled his throat. “It’s quite tight.”  
“Show off the goods, that’s the spirit!” Gabriel stood up from the end of the bed where he was sitting. “Extra squidgy around the backside too, give him an eyeful of that bubble-butt of yours.”  
Castiel frowned, embarrassed. “Gabriel, please.”  
“What’s the big issue, hm?” Gabriel asked, slinging a friendly arm over Castiel’s shoulders.  
Castiel looked down. “Could I at least have room to...” He purposefully stopped speaking, raising a single finger limply in the air, then demonstrated it stiffening, slowly, until it pointed at an angle toward the ceiling.  
Gabriel’s face quirked into a toothy grin. “Could’a said, Cassie.” With a flick of Gabriel’s fingers, Castiel instantly felt a lot less compressed between his legs, extra fabric added in. He nodded in thanks.  
“When’s the big date?” Gabriel asked, arm falling from Castiel’s shoulders as he went back to join Cupid in the middle of the room, white sheets offsetting each of their dark clothing so they both stood out.  
“Our meeting? Late tonight. Dean doesn’t know I’m coming.”  
Both other fallen angels turned to look at Castiel, confused. Castiel realised he ought to explain.  
“He specifically told me not to see him for a few days.”  
“Um, Cas―”  
“He was lying, he was saying over and over in his mind, that he was wrong, and he was... well, that he was lying. Not a conscious thought, but he was hoping I would understand. He desperately wants to touch me again. He was really very conflicted at the time.”  
“Indeed,” Cupid said abruptly. “Well, I have duties to attend to.” He snatched up a pile of Castiel’s dirty laundry and strode to the door, Gabriel opening it for him with a swish of fingers. “Take care of him, Gabe, make sure he makes his date all right.”  
“Gotcha.”  
Cupid left, and Gabriel shut the door behind him.  
“He was in a hurry,” Castiel noted.  
“Places to be, people to fix, bedrooms to clean. He’s a very busy angel.”  
Castiel corrected him, “Fallen angel.”  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
“You’re not offended by the difference?”  
Gabriel shrugged, slumping into a large chair that appeared behind him. “No such thing as angels any more, in my opinion. It’s all the same difference, since we’re all in Zamreer.”  
“You don’t think any of the brethren remain in Heaven?” Castiel sat on the end of his bed, the same place he sat when the Priestess paced. He felt uncomfortable and uneasy there, so sat in the middle of the bed with his legs crossed instead.  
“I think there’s nothing left ‘cept us, Cas.” Gabriel looked defeated, an expression Castiel had never seen on him before. “I don’t think there’s a Heaven to go back to.”  
Castiel lowered his eyes, sniffing. “What happens when we die?”  
“You’re really one for the big questions, aren’t you?” Gabriel replied with a smirk. Then he sobered, and shrugged. “I think there’s a big hole o’ nothin’, really. Don’t know about humans, but we angels? Poof, and we’re gone.”  
“What about horses?”  
Gabriel tilted his chin, then laughed. “No clue about horses.”  
Castiel hung his head.  
Gabriel saw his movement and rolled his eyes, sighing. “What did you do now?”  
“I healed a horse. She was going to die... I didn’t want to lose her.”  
“You used your power?”  
Castiel bit his lip. “I promised Dean I wouldn’t.”  
“So... not only are you going up to his tower to hump the shit out of him without letting him know beforehand, but you’re also right up there in breaking promises?”  
Castiel looked at Gabriel, eyes tightening. “I also lied when he asked me if the Priestess knew about me not having my ring. He doesn’t know how much she hurts me. I told him I was safe.”  
Gabriel shook his head. “Recipe for disaster, kiddo.”  
“I feel a great deal of guilt.”  
“You’re gonna come clean, right?”  
“Should I?  
Gabriel nodded exaggeratedly, indicating it was an obvious question. “You can’t lie to someone you’re in love with, not about big things.”  
Castiel trembled and lay down on his bed, face in the blanket. “I never meant to lie, I just don’t want to upset him.”  
“‘course you don’t,” Gabriel muttered.  
Castiel kicked the bed, drawing the covers up around him. “Come back and wake me up when it’s night-time.”  
Gabriel sighed slowly. His voice was soft as he said, “I’ll be here, Cas.”  
“You’re going to wait?”  
“Got nothin’ better to do.”  
Castiel smiled at him, then rolled over and went to sleep.  
~  
Gabriel poked Castiel in the side with a finger.  
“Nnn.”  
Gabriel prodded him again.  
“ _What_ , Gabe?” Castiel muttered, face buried in a pillow.  
“You’re squidgy at the sides.”  
“That hurts, stoppit.”  
“I’ll stop when you get up.”  
Castiel growled and rolled over, away from the poking finger - and fell to the floor with a heavy thud. “Nghh,” he growled, curling into a ball. He ached all over, and he could have done with another ten hours of sleep. He coughed wetly, phlegm riding his throat. Then he sobbed and wrapped his arms over his head.  
Gabriel toed him with his boot. “Big date, Cassie. Can’t forget that.”  
“Where’s Cupid? I need to be not-sick.”  
“Gone AWOL, I think.”  
“Nnnnnnn.”  
“Come on, your hair is a mess and your clothes are all crumpled. And you should wash your mouth out, you’re in no state to be kissing.”  
“Kissing?”  
“I assume you’re going to stick your mouth on your pretty-boy Captain, ain’t’cha?”  
Castiel blinked, sitting up a little bit, shoving Gabriel’s boot away. “Yes.”  
“Then, _mouthwash_.”  
“Hmph,” Castiel said, sitting up properly and running his hands through his hair. He vanished into the washroom, and came back a few minutes later with a confession on his lips. “Gabriel?”  
“Uh-huh?” Gabriel replied, looking through Castiel’s drawers.  
“I don’t know what to do.”  
“What to do when?”  
“With... sex.”  
“You managed it fine rolling around in the mud, so I heard.”  
Castiel shook his head, raking his hands through his tufty hair once more. “That was... messy. And confusing, and strange.”  
“Sex is always like that, bro,” Gabriel said, slapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Just do what you want, tell him what you’re doing, what you’re gonna do, ask him what he wants. You’ll be fine.”  
“You are not as embarrassed talking about intimacy as Dean is.”  
“That’s because Dean likes you. Talking about it gets him going in his unmentionables.”  
“It does?”  
“Sure it does,” Gabriel said with a small grin, fixing Castiel’s hair with his hands. “Talking about it’s half the fun.”  
“So all the times he told me he felt uncomfortable―”  
“He just didn’t get why he was so turned on.”  
Castiel watched as Gabriel uncrumpled his clothes with a whip of his hand. “Turned on?”  
“Aroused. Man, you gotta read some better books.”  
“There are books with sex in them?”  
Gabriel arched his eyebrows suggestively. “Turn around, let me look at you,” he said, spinning Cas on the spot. “Oh, very nice.”  
“Do I look okay?”  
“If you weren’t Dean’s and a dude, I’d screw you in a heartbeat.”  
Castiel swallowed then coughed. “Thank you.”  
“Now, get going, it’s almost ten.”  
“The Priestess didn’t come to check on me, did she? She was very angry about me not having my ring, I’d have thought she would be looking for me.”  
Gabriel looked down. “Yeah, I may have...”  
“What did you do?” Castiel asked suddenly.  
“I hid you. Made us both invisible?”  
Castiel slapped a hand over his mouth in despair. “No! Why did you do that? Now when she finds me she’ll... she’ll be so angry, Gabriel!”  
“Because, Cas. If she found you sleeping in these clothes, sniffly with a cold... Where have you been, Castiel? What have you done to break her rules?”  
“I’ve... oh.” Castiel breathed heavily through his hands. “I only remembered my promise to Dean, I didn’t... I forgot she...”  
“You forgot she would stop you leaving if you used your power.”  
Castiel nodded quickly, eyes wide with shock. He’d been so wrapped up in _Dean_ , he’d forgotten his fear of the Priestess, completely.  
“I figured... One more night, Cas. One night of freedom for you, we can deal with your imprisonment tomorrow.”  
Castiel sniffed, from his cold or oncoming tears, one or both.  
“Whoa, whoa.” Gabriel stepped forward and held Castiel’s head in both his hands. “Don’t sniffle, you’ll mess up your pretty face.”  
“The boy in the kitchens... Andy. He can stop her remembering, make her believe something else―”  
“It’s okay, Cas. I’ll deal with it. It’s okay.”  
Castiel shook his head, then it turned to a nod, as Gabriel spoke. “Thank you.”  
“It’s cool, bro. ’s what I’m here for. I’m like your guard dog. You and Dean. You two can screw to your heart’s content, I’ll be here to keep you safe. You deserve each other, you do.”  
Castiel didn’t know what to say, but accepted the kiss Gabriel pressed to his forehead. “Go on, I’ll take you over there. Chaperone.”  
“You are ridiculously loyal, Gabriel,” Castiel said, shaking his head.  
“Woof,” Gabriel said, baring his teeth in a doggish smile.  
Castiel bit out a tiny laugh, and followed his fallen angel brother to the door of his room, leaving the room in darkness behind them as Gabriel waved a hand over the last of the candles.  
Castiel let out a small breath. “May we make one stop on the way over?”  
~  
“Forgive me Father, for I am about to sin.”  
“That’s a new one,” Bobby murmured from the other side.  
“I am about to do something very, very bad. And I don’t wish to be stopped.”  
“Care to tell me what you’re going to do?” Bobby replied, irked.  
Castiel grinned, feeling rather elated. He coughed, hollow and hot up his throat. He swallowed the burn down, then croaked out, “I’m going to have sex with another man. Again.”  
Bobby rattled out a breath from beyond the partition of the confession booth. “You know I ain’t here for you to confess to, _before_ you do the deed, right?”  
“Would you rather I tell you afterwards, when you have no bearing on what it is I’m about to do?”  
“You said it yourself, I ain’t changing your mind.”  
“Correct. I am going to - guh... _atchhkk...! haa... snnf_ \- I’m going to do it whether you approve or not.”  
“Bless you, but only because it’s polite. Why do you need my approval, exactly?”  
“You are as close to a reply from God as I’m ever going to get.”  
“I told you before, I’m a crummy man’ o’ God, my word ain’t worth much.”  
“It’s worth enough. I would like God to know, that I do not care whether what I’m doing is a sin, because it is not hurting anybody, and anybody who knows already doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. Present company excluded.”  
“Thanks for letting me in on the plan, Castiel, it’s a good one,” Bobby said sarcastically.  
“You are welcome, I thought you might appreciate it,” Castiel said, not catching the sarcasm at all. “And please let God know, that I _am_ sorry. But, screw Him.”  
Castiel stood up and walked out of the booth, Gabriel rising from a distant pew to join him as he headed for the exit. “I’m going to screw Dean Winchester.”  
~  
Castiel only began to hesitate when Gabriel shoved him up the small spiral staircase to Dean’s room.  
“Maybe I shouldn’t―”  
“Maybe you’ll regret it the rest of your miserable life if you don’t.”  
“Maybe just some other day―”  
“No time like the present.”  
“Gabriel―”  
“Not backing out now, no way. Not after all of today.”  
“But I’m sick―”  
“You won’t be in a minute, trust me.”  
Castiel coughed once more, stifling the noise with his hand. He didn’t want Dean to hear him coming.  
“You ready, kiddo?”  
“No!” Castiel complained, hands curled in fists.  
“Too bad. Go, make your big entrance. I’ll be out here for a minute, then I’m off, and you can have your privacy. Just let me know how it goes when you see me next, won’t you.”  
“Okay.”  
“Now, go get him!” And with that, Gabriel opened Dean’s door and shoved Castiel inside, closing the door behind him.  
Castiel took a couple of decisive steps forward, determined to look confident. Dean was beside the end of his bed. He turned around at the sound of the slamming door, surprised to see Castiel striding over. He stopped an arm’s length away.  
“Make love to me,” Castiel commanded.  
Dean stared back with a slightly open mouth.  
Cupid’s voice drifted over from the other side of the room, lost behind a partition. “Whoa, whoa there. Let me―” He bustled into the candlelight, trailing bundles of black shirts, a small stack of dirty plates wobbling atop it, balanced impossibly on one arm. The other arm stretched out, poking first Castiel on the forehead, clearing the stuffiness in his nose, and the rawness of his throat; then Cupid moved to Dean, who let out a sigh of relief as his sore nose returned to its normal colour.  
“You boys have fun, won’t you,” Cupid said, finally, before backing out of the door, Castiel hearing Gabriel say, “How was he?” before the door closed.  
Castiel stared at Dean. Dean stared at Castiel.  
Dean still had his sword tied to his belt, and his hand was holding it gently, fingers curled around the hilt. He was wearing the green shirt that he’d worn on the first day he had met Castiel. He looked very handsome.  
“D-do you want to...?” Castiel stammered, realising this had turned into a set-up.  
Dean stared at him for only a moment longer before collapsing into a sigh. “ _Yes_.”  
Castiel’s face barely had time to break into a smile before Dean’s lips were on him, arms twining around his waist, hands hot through the shirt Gabriel made him. Dean drove their middles together, one hand crawling under the hem of Castiel’s shirt, palm flat against his hip.  
“New clothes,” Dean muttered, breaking the kiss to breathe against Castiel’s lips. “Looks good.”  
“Mm, you look exquisite in green,” Castiel whispered back, locking their lips together in a open-mouthed twist.  
“You’d look better naked,” Dean mumbled, nose pressed into Castiel’s throat, inhaling him deeply. Castiel grunted, hand over Dean’s shoulder, bunching his shirt in curling fingers as he let Dean mouth at his neck.  
“You look very―” Castiel shoved Dean back, grabbing for his belt and untying it with a single motion, letting his sword clatter to the floor “―very―” he took hold of a handful of Dean’s shirt and pulled it over his head, enjoying how pliantly Dean raised his arms “― _very_ good,” Castiel said, sliding down Dean’s body with his hands in the other man’s trousers, shoving them to the floor as he knelt, turning his eye to Dean’s bare skin at his eye level, “...naked.”  
Dean let out a soft breath, and Castiel saw his cock give an excited twitch, swelling as he watched. Castiel licked his lips, slowly standing back up.  
“I feel very aroused at the moment,” he told Dean. “You should take my clothes off.”  
Dean’s eyes were dark with lust, and Castiel knew he must look the same: lips parted, a little swollen from kissing, a tiny smile curving the edges. “I should, should I?” Dean asked, his voice deeper than Castiel knew it.  
“Yes. You should.” He licked his lips again, fingers locating Dean’s hands on his hip and his ribs, the left one under his shirt. He manipulated Dean’s hands so they were holding the blue cloth, and Dean finally gave in, unable to tease any longer.  
Lurching forward to kiss Castiel again, Dean let out a slight moan as their bodies pushed together, shirt riding up between them as Dean removed it. Dean then kept his eyes on Castiel’s, noses bumping and breath hitching, as he untied the belt at Castiel’s waist.  
Castiel’s hands shook as he held tight to Dean’s shoulders, feeling the hot skin under him. Dean was broad in the shoulder, and pleasantly muscular. His shape was somewhere between curve and point; Castiel could feel the bones moving as Dean’s arms shifted.  
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Dean murmured, eyes dropping to Castiel’s lips again.  
“You still want to.”  
“Yes.” Dean kissed him again, soft this time, but as it drove into him, with Dean’s bottom lip dragging his stubble, it grew deeper, more intense. In less than half a minute, they were gasping for air, hips rocking together as they stood in place, Dean unclothed, Castiel’s trousers still hanging from his waist, buttons not yet undone.  
Dean took hold of Castiel’s hips and guided him to the bed, bumping him onto the foot of it as he tripped over a wooden ottoman that sat there. The bed was shaded, under a heavy brown-red cloth that was hitched between the high bedposts at the corners. Castiel shuffled back into the shadow, so only his calves were over the end of the bed, knees spreading wider apart to accommodate Dean as he swung himself between them, clambering over the box as if it were not there. Dean moved hips first, knees following at a shuffle; his arousal led him, hanging heavy with its own weight.  
Castiel raised a hesitant hand to touch him, unsure if he was allowed. “Can I―?”  
Dean answered the question by pushing himself into Castiel’s waiting hand, a thick, plump heat filling his palm, soft skin over a bar of solid flesh. He rolled down on top of Castiel, forcing his thigh into his crotch. Castiel squeaked, a blaze of pleasure coming from the pressure on his tented trousers. His hand squeezed on Dean’s length, and Dean sighed through his nose, then took a slow breath and swallowed hard.  
Dean lay himself over Castiel, running his thigh against Castiel’s stiffness again, pressing heavily. Castiel dropped Dean’s cock as he moaned, eyes falling shut.  
“Take - m... naked, want to be naked.”  
Dean flashed a fast grin, cheeks flushing hot. “Gotcha, Cas,” he said, only a whisper, but a low note of his voice ran deep below it. He ran fingertips down Castiel’s stomach, frisking the feverish skin with tiny flourishes as he went. He stopped at the waistband, belt hanging loose from the sides. One button, two, three.  
Castiel bucked into his hands, but Dean swatted him back down, pushing an open hand over his crotch before he granted Castiel relief. Castiel moaned again, hand meeting Dean’s and taking hold of it and forcing it down, hard. He made Dean massage him, feeling a pulse of flame through him on every downward shift of Dean’s hand.  
Dean pulled their hands away, shuffling forward so his erection was right up against the unbuttoned opening of Castiel’s trousers. Slowly, he tugged the fabric apart, letting Castiel’s cock strain forwards against his breeches.  
“Gabriel didn’t think to get your underthings off this time?” Dean asked, Adam’s apple bobbing.  
“Take them - take them off―”  
“All right, I got you,” Dean soothed, tongue slipping over his lower lip. He untied the drawstring with two fingers, taking hold of the breeches from the top and pulling them down, letting Castiel’s member free, swelling further now that it had the space to do so. Dean groaned on a sigh, taking Castiel in hand. Castiel bucked unintentionally, filling Dean’s hand completely with heat, eyes widening as Dean wrapped his fingers around him and tugged, once.  
“Rub me,” Castiel said, mouth opening in a silent gasp as his head fell back, swallowing hard. Dean took this as an invitation to rub his whole body against Castiel, and he did so, dragging his cock against him as he went.  
There was a greedy fever washing all over Castiel; he was burning up from the inside out; the furnace that was Dean was on top of him, rolling against him. All he could do was push back, hand loosely on Dean’s shoulder as their hips clashed, cocks sliding against each other like thick, badly controlled swords, dragging their heated flesh together.  
Castiel gasped and grabbed Dean, shoving their bodies over as one, so Castiel was now atop Dean, straddling him, looking down at his lust-emblazoned face.  
Dean bucked up, their members knocking again heavily. He grunted and tried again, only hitting his hips against Castiel’s ass with a slap this time.  
Castiel leaned down to kiss him, hand spreading slowly over Dean’s chest. He broke the kiss to look down, fingers finding a nipple and toying with it. Dean panted, head bumping Castiel’s, hair rustling together.  
There was no hair on Dean’s chest at all, much like Castiel himself. Dean reached up to palm his chest in return, exploring the skin with his spread fingertips.  
“You are... very attractive...” Castiel breathed, ending with another heated kiss.  
“Thanks,” Dean replied through the kiss. He trailed a line of kisses to Castiel’s ear, bucking his hips into him as he went. “You’re - Cas, you’re friggin’ _hot_ ,” he whispered, face scrunching as Castiel took his hand lower and slipped it between Dean’s legs, the friction of their bodies broken as Castiel massaged Dean’s ballsack.  
“What - what’re you doing?” Dean asked, unable to breathe evenly as Castiel’s fingers moved to his perineum, pressing gently.  
“I want to put my―” Castiel glanced down at himself, at the stiffness between his legs, then back to Dean.  
“Dick. Penis. Cock,” Dean offered, licking his lips and bringing Castiel’s lips back down to kiss him as he spoke, snapping their kiss apart again to whisper, “Throbbing Sword of Sex, I don’t care. Just, goddammit Cas, do something with it.”  
“I want to put it inside you.”  
Dean gasped, looking very much like he was about to lose consciousness. “In _me?_ ”  
Castiel nodded, gently. “What would you suggest?”  
Dean glanced, wide-eyed, to between his legs, his thighs pressing together subtly as Castiel knelt above him, hand rocking gently over himself. “You can’t put that...” Dean swallowed, sitting up on his elbows, watching Castiel touch himself. “You’re not allowed to do that, you can’t put it in _me_...”  
Castiel frowned, hand on his cock stilling and squeezing at the base. “Why not?”  
“Firstly,” Dean said, sitting up on his hands, propping his torso upright so his face was close to Castiel’s, “because sodomy is like a whole other bad thing, and secondly, because I’m a dude. You can’t just... I can’t be the girl.”  
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said, shaking his head gently. Dean kissed him without even realising he was doing it, and looked slightly surprised when he pulled away.  
“I’m the one that sticks my dick in things, not... not the other way ‘round.”  
Castiel still did not understand, but had figured out a way to pleasure them both while they had been talking. He leaned forward again and crowded Dean back to the mattress, shuffling over him so his dick lined up with with Dean’s once more - then, concentrating, he pushed his hips down with his hand guiding him, driving his cock between Dean’s thighs, in the gap between the tops of his legs. Dean shuddered, trying to spread his legs - Castiel stopped him, thrusting downward.  
“That’s - that’s...” Dean stuttered, then stopped talking and arched his back, elbows digging into the dark linen on the bed, hands clenching in empty air.  
“Oh, that’s good, that’s g- _uh_...” Dean didn’t buck any more, but held his legs tense, letting Castiel press against the space between his balls and his ass.  
“Jesus, Cas, that’s―” he broke off in a moan, biting his lower lip, eyes tight shut.  
“You like being the girl,” Castiel admitted for him.  
“Sh-shut up, I’m just―” Dean gasped for breath, clawing at the heavy sheets. “I just like your cock right up to me like that - I - oh fuck...”  
Castiel hummed agreement, stomach sliding over Dean’s as he got a good rhythm going.  
Dean keened, running a lightly perspiring hand down Castiel’s back, fingers dipping lower along his spine. Castiel shivered in response, feeling himself leaking between Dean’s legs, getting slicker as he rubbed.  
Dean moaned again, eyes flickering as he trembled. “I... I wanna do that to you. My cock right up there…that feels _good_ , oh God.”  
Castiel’s rhythm stuttered, suddenly feeling a flush of arousal at the thought that Dean wanted to be rubbing so close to him like this. It felt very much like how penetration must feel, Castiel considered. It was hot and wet, tight as Dean clenched his legs.  
He pulled out and crawled onto his front, feeling Dean’s weight on him straight away from behind.  
“Close your legs, Cas,” Dean said, already thrusting his member at Castiel’s thighs, eager. Castiel lay half on his side, half on his front, so he could still touch himself with one hand, the other bracing himself on the bed. His thighs squeezed together, one knee crooked against the mattress as he held himself up.  
Dean’s hand joined Castiel’s on the bed above their heads, thumb hooking over Castiel’s little finger. Castiel noticed the hot panting breaths on the back of his neck as Dean inched forward, slipping his cock in underneath Castiel’s ass. He felt his thighs parting as hardness pushed between them, nudging his balls as Dean’s length made it just out the other side. Castiel looked down and watched it happen a second time, unable to withhold a whimpered moan, his jaw slack.  
“Fuck. Jeez - _fuck_. God, I’m fucking a man, _I’m fucking a man_ ,” Dean breathed on his skin, shaky kisses brushing over the nape of his neck.  
“What... _mmh_... what does that word mean?” Castiel asked, eyes falling shut as he sighed, rocking back into Dean’s heated thrusts.  
“Fuck?” Dean asked, enunciating the word over Castiel’s ear, clicking the ‘ _k_ ’.  
“I’ve never _hh_ -heard it used in that - context.”  
Dean smiled into his shoulder, pushing harder; Castiel felt the head of Dean’s dick nudging into the soft skin between his legs, stabbing him gently before slipping through and poking out the other side.  
“Penetration m-mostly,” Dean explained, eyelashes dancing on Castiel’s neck, his voice deep and gruff. “It means sex.” He grunted, bucking maniacally into Castiel’s rear, tugging out from him completely before shoving back between his thighs, slick and slippery with pre-come. “He fucks, she fucks. They fuck each other, they’re fucking right now. He fucks―” he thrusted, “and he _fucks_ ―” he ground himself deep between Castiel’s legs, pressing so hard that Castiel’s legs slid apart, and he felt suddenly light. He used the moment of separation to scramble over the bed, out of Dean’s arms, finding his place between Dean’s legs again, spreading them.  
He took hold of Dean’s thighs - Dean followed his movement mindlessly, only eager for more touching. Castiel lifted Dean’s thighs over his own, exposing his reddened cock, leaking and smeared with glossy, pearly liquid. Dean’s ballsack hung below, tightened gently, right up against the fuzz of brown hair that brushed over his skin. The hair ran down in a line between the partition of his legs, ending before it reached the pucker of his hole. Castiel looked up at Dean, eyes dark.  
“Don’t you dare,” Dean whispered, growling.  
“I don’t intend to penetrate you there,” Castiel said, blinking slowly. He settled himself between Dean’s legs anyway, taking his own cock in hand and guiding it between Dean’s buttocks, pleased that Dean took the hint and clenched around him as he began to rock. Dean hummed an uneven note, finding the new sensation odd but pleasing, same as Castiel. Castiel kissed the hollow beneath Dean’s chin, stubble pricking his lips.  
His dick slipped out from between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, but he kept riding into him, still enjoying the heat of Dean’s skin against him. Dean bucked like before, trying to get more friction.  
“Here,” Dean muttered, beckoning Castiel closer with a sticky hand. “Put my legs - push them up close to me.”  
Castiel followed his direction, squeezing Dean’s legs together at the knee, leaning on the back of his thighs until Dean’s legs were the only thing between their chests, Castiel still rubbing up against Dean’s testicles, his own balls nudging at Dean’s anus very gently.  
“Put your cock between my legs, dammit,” Dean hissed, writhing desperately.  
Castiel complied, inserting himself in the gap of Dean's thighs, hearing Dean sigh with relief as the tiny space was filled, their members only just slipping together where Castiel couldn’t see. Dean wrapped a hand around Castiel’s, and Castiel groaned slowly, barely able to keep his rhythm regular, only wanting to shove himself deep between Dean’s muscles and stay there, hand around him.  
“Go faster, Cas,” Dean begged, hips rising off the bed an inch or so.  
Castiel tried to comply, grunting as he lowered his whole weight onto Dean’s thighs, Dean flat on his back beneath them, gasping as he was crushed into the bed. Now both their pleasure was riding solely on the thrust of Castiel’s hips, rutting into Dean and making him moan. Every sound he uttered made Castiel tingle, eyes rarely drifting from Dean’s face; he liked knowing he was the one making Dean tremble and gasp like that.  
Dean suddenly whined, then whispered quickly, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna... oh _God_ , Cas, go faster.”  
Castiel could scarcely go any faster, bearing down on Dean at the pace of a rabbit’s flicking tail as it scurried into the undergrowth. “I - can’t―”  
“Cas!” Dean hissed, grabbing for his hair, tangling fingers through it. “You’re making me come, you’re making... me―” he broke off in a shudder, back arching off the sheets, free hand scrunching the covers in a tight fist.  
Castiel watched Dean’s face with rapture, seeing his lips parted in a silent scream, eyes open and soft at the edges, pupils dark and dilated; his cheeks were flushed pink, as was his chest, just lightly. Castiel saw a flicker of white as it sprayed up over Dean’s stomach, felt a second shudder as Dean collapsed in on himself, legs splaying apart as he no longer had the energy to keep them clenched.  
Dean’s thighs shifted and Castiel fell on top of him, smacking into Dean’s blazing hot skin, gasping as he kept rolling down into him, feeling semen slipping under him as he moved.  
Sighing exhaustedly, Dean wriggled underneath him, turning his head to the side of Castiel’s face. Dean purred in his ear, a broken moan that drifted gently into his mind on a soft breath. “Cas... fucks... Dean.”  
Castiel gasped with an open mouth, some unexplained rush of excitement pouring through him at Dean’s words; orgasm ripped from him as he lay over Dean, hearing the sound of skin on skin as his body slid through their combined orgasms on Dean’s midriff. He managed one final thrust before he shivered to a stop, then Dean’s arms wrapped around him and a second later they were lying on their sides, facing each other, Dean’s upper leg slipped between his own.  
Castiel tried to speak but only moaned, eyes falling closed. He opened them again as a pair of lips found his, softly parting them, Dean’s top lip pressed between Castiel’s as he sucked, ever so gently. Dean sighed over Castiel’s chin, breaking apart with a tiny click of wet lips.  
“That w... I enjoyed...” Castiel swallowed, hoping Dean got the gist of it.  
Dean nodded against him, rubbing their faces together, his nose poking into Castiel’s cheek as he sighed on him again. “Friggin’ awesome.” His voice was so pleasure-broken, it was nothing like he had ever heard Dean say. Castiel felt warm all over, contentedly tired.  
“We should clean; we’ll be sticky,” Castiel managed, words feeling strange after so much moaning and whimpering and grunting.  
Dean huffed and arched over backwards, reaching across the bed to a table beside the left-hand pillow, grabbing a wet cloth from a bowl beside a jug. Water trailed from its end as he pulled it over to Castiel’s chest, smoothing it down his skin. Castiel kept his eyes on Dean as Dean’s eyes travelled Castiel’s body; the cool wetness of the cloth ran over his lower stomach, then through his pubic hair, and he spread his legs so Dean could wipe between them. Dean’s eyelids flickered when he got there, lips parted once more. His hand lingered, a finger trailing through the crease of skin. Castiel shivered.  
Then Dean tugged one of Castiel’s hands into his own, wiping it down, then his own, because he realised he was just getting Castiel’s hands slimy again. His eyes shot to Castiel’s as he did this, and Castiel smiled slowly, a curve that widened as Dean returned it easily.  
Then Dean left the cloth in Castiel’s hand, and he discerned that it was his turn to clean Dean’s mess up. Lips relaxed, Castiel began from Dean’s chest, as Dean had done, wiping the smears of white away as he trailed the cloth down, down. He held it a little gentler as he wrapped it around Dean’s cock, removing the glistening film from his skin. He did the same for himself, as Dean hadn’t. He hesitated before he reached between Dean’s legs, however. He wanted to watch Dean.  
Eyes on the thin rings of Dean’s green pupils, Castiel blindly guided the now-mucky cloth under Dean’s ballsack, wiping with a single finger, rubbing delicately. Dean gasped ever so slowly, lips barely apart. Their eyes never broke contact, and Castiel kept up his mopping of Dean’s inner thighs, smiling when Dean finally propped his leg up so he could reach properly. Dean grunted under his breath as Castiel drew the cloth back up for a final pass, scrunching it up in his hand as he glanced at it.  
“Just throw it on the floor,” Dean murmured, and Castiel did, rolling onto Dean as he did so, lips falling into an automatic kiss, tender but passionate.  
“Mm,” Dean complained, hand running the length of Castiel’s side. “Bed.”  
Castiel licked his lips and nodded, eyes falling to Dean’s lips. They were so full, so very soft and delicate to kiss. He had thought the man’s kiss would be brutal, forceful like his fighting - but it was fluid, as smooth to press his lips to as a fine foreign silk.  
He followed Dean’s half-molten crawl to the head of the bed, limbs heavy. Dean thrust back the covers and slipped between the heavy red linen and the white cotton underneath. The bedsheets were freshly made, and as Castiel awkwardly clambered onto a pillow to slide his legs under the sheet, he recognised Cupid’s sheet-laying style. Cupid had clearly had his work cut out for him: Castiel looked around now, and he saw everything was neatly put away, nothing like the disaster Dean’s room had been before.  
Dean’s hand found Castiel’s under the blanket, then crept up his arm to his shoulder, cupping his muscles as Dean leaned into him, lips bumping his again. Castiel let him push him down into the pillow, eyes closed. Dean tasted perfect right now. There had never been a better sensation on Castiel’s tongue.  
Candles still flickered low around the room, but the shade of the bed-hanging was oddly calming; it felt like a shelter from prying eyes. Castiel felt very safe, and Dean must have felt the same, for he seemed so relaxed, eyes half-hooded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  
Castiel sighed quietly and kissed him again, hips touching and warm.  
“You look very content,” Castiel told him, pleased.  
Dean hummed a low note in reply, smile putting tiny dimples into his cheeks. “So do you.”  
Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean’s lips, only a few inches from his face. He could feel the heat of his breath between their faces. “You are very handsome,” he couldn’t help but share with him.  
Dean almost laughed, a quiet chuckle that sounded like a heavy ball rolling in his throat. “You’re more handsome than a girl, I’ll give you that.”  
Castiel smiled, eyes closed for a moment. He opened them again to find Dean’s expression slightly changed, to something more concerned.  
“What is it?” Castiel asked, tone still heavy with post-coital bliss. He couldn’t share Dean’s frown.  
“Would you...” Dean trailed off, eyes darting away for a half-second, then flashing back. “Would you still feel the same way about me if I was... if I looked different?”  
“Different how?”  
Dean swallowed. “If I were a frog, say.”  
“I would love you if you were a frog, also.”  
Dean hesitated when Castiel said ‘love’. Castiel did not expect Dean to return his sentiments of affection. He didn’t mind, it wasn’t a _Dean_ thing to do.  
“But...” Dean seemed quite unsure. “If I didn’t look like this any more. I don’t know - if I got fat, or old, or... if I was injured in battle. Covered in scars.”  
Castiel blinked, a hand sliding under the cover up Dean’s bare chest, over his heart, feeling it pulse under his skin. “Your scars tell the story of your life, your face is beautiful on the outside, but... your soul, Dean. I can see how scarred that is, the pain you’ve suffered in your lifetime. But that is beautiful too.”  
Dean turned his head down, cheek sinking down the pillow. “My soul is scarred?”  
“With grief. And loss, and loneliness,” Castiel told him, inching closer so as to try and fill that emptiness he felt in Dean.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.  
“For what?”  
“To share this with you, it’s kind of... heavy.”  
Castiel shook his head, nose brushing Dean’s. “I am taking your emotions willingly.”  
Dean swallowed, pressing another kiss to Castiel’s mouth. Castiel surged into it, tasting the haze of Dean’s shining soul mixed in with the Earth of his mouth.  
“Dean?’ Castiel whispered, mouth still touching Dean’s.  
“Hm?”  
“Tell me their stories?” he requested, hand slipping to hold the back of Dean’s neck. “Your scars. The ones on your skin.”  
“All of them?”  
Castiel nodded, eyes closed. He loved the stories, all human stories - but ones with Dean in them were surely the best.  
“Where do you want to start?” Dean asked with a tiny laugh.  
Castiel already knew. “The most recent. This one.” He touched his fingertips to the welt on Dean’s right shoulder, below the bone but above his heart.  
“Dude, you were there when that happened,” Dean said, confused.  
“Your fight with Raphael, I know. He stabbed you and made your fighting arm weaker.”  
Dean swallowed, looking down at Castiel’s hand as he massaged the scar tissue. The line was healed, fixed by Anna as he had lain in the sand; only a raised scar remained, a shade darker in colour than the surrounding skin.  
“Why do you want me to tell it,” Dean asked, “if you already know it?”  
Castiel smiled and buried his nose into Dean’s chin for a second, nuzzling him. “I like the sound of your voice.”  
“You’re so soppy, man,” Dean retorted, but he was smiling as he said it. “Okay, so there was this boy. An angel, who fell from Heaven. He met this other boy, but that boy was in trouble.” Dean blinked, amused by his own story. “The angel―”  
“Fallen angel.”  
“― _fallen_ angel, he made the other boy a sword, so he could win his fight... And eventually... he won his heart.” Dean broke off at the end and stared at Castiel, and Castiel stared back.  
Dean closed his eyes and kissed his fallen angel. Then he pulled away with a soft laugh, cupping Castiel’s hand and dragging it away from his shoulder. “Okay, where next?”  
“This one,” Castiel said, eyes on Dean’s as he slid his fingers over Dean’s skin, to rest on his left hip, the back of Castiel’s hand tenting the blanket above.  
“How do you know where they are?” Dean asked. Castiel knew exactly where to move his hands, even without seeing Dean’s scars, somehow knowing which were the newest.  
“I saw you naked, and I tasted your soul when you kissed me...” Castiel knew it made more sense to him as a fallen angel than it did to Dean, but it was very hard to explain. “It comes as second nature for me to know things.”  
“You’re not using your mojo?”  
“Not for this.”  
Dean nodded, and then began to tell Castiel all the other stories, of every scar that had ever marked his skin, even those that had long-since faded. More than a few were at the hands of Gabriel, most of which made Dean laugh in retrospect. Some made him tremble in recollection of battles past; others in nostalgia from times when he was still young and training for the Guard.  
Each time, Castiel passed his hand onward, gently pressing his fingers in a road between the marks, tracking their journey over Dean.  
There must have been at least fifty in all, passing through all of his twenty-six years, down beyond when he joined the Guard, when he was still a child - some he didn’t remember at all, and Castiel found he could recollect their story on Dean’s behalf, as the memory was still inside him, buried deep.  
Soon enough, they reached the end - or the beginning - of the scars, and Dean probably felt strange now; Castiel could sense he was holding back a question. Castiel kissed him again, feeling Dean delay before he kissed back.  
“Dean, what is it you want to ask me?”  
Dean huffed. “You can tell?”  
“You are tense, and you’re breathing differently.”  
“Well,” Dean said, placing a much warmer, relieved kiss on Castiel’s forehead, “you missed one.”  
Castiel was silent for a bit. “You didn’t want me to ask about that one.”  
Dean closed his eyes, realising he had trapped himself. As he opened them again, he pressed his lips together. “I do now. Ask me.”  
Castiel slid his hand from Dean’s hip, across the back of his shoulder, around to his arm, fingertips slipping down through the hair on his forearm. He finally rested his touch on the back of Dean’s arm, with his fingers locked around the muscles a few inches above his wrist.  
There was a patch there, where the hair refused to grow, where the skin was a little tighter. It couldn’t be seen, as Dean’s arm was pale and the underside was almost hairless anyway. But it was there, and Dean harboured a sea of emotion under it.  
“You don’t have to tell me, Dean.”  
“I want to.”  
“Then, take your time; you can stop if you want.”  
Dean took in a very quiet breath, trying not to reveal how much he was trembling. He licked his lips before beginning, eyes on Castiel’s mouth. “When I was nine. And I’d been sent to the Guard, away from my village... I was in the courtyard, training with, like, wooden practice swords. I’d been there a few years, my parents had visited a few times. They hadn’t been in almost half a year though, at that point. They sent letters and stuff, but God... I missed them.  
“Uncle Bobby suddenly turned up, I saw him from the other side of the courtyard and I was gonna go over, but Rufus was... he held up a hand, kept me back while they talked.  
“It was ages before they let me see him, but then he... he told me...”  
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, and Castiel lent his forehead to his, stroking his hair as Dean gathered himself.  
“Bobby told me my parents, that they were - killed in a fire, someone burned the whole village. The Reaper Massacre.” Dean took a deep breath, puffing it over Castiel’s lips before he continued, “And my baby brother - they didn’t even tell Bobby they were pregnant, but there was a baby, six months old... Burned along with them.”  
Castiel felt a tear gliding down his own cheek, crossing the bridge of his nose and spilling into his other eye. “I am sorry, Dean.”  
“But, then... then.” Dean settled a bit, pulling his forehead a tiny space free of Castiel’s so he could look him in the eye, however briefly, before his closed his eyelids again. “I was so young, I didn’t get it, not at first. It was only when there were other kids, ones who lost their parents too, or their pets, or saw real fights where people died... My family wasn’t coming back. I was never going home. I had no home any more, it was burned.  
“I found a... it was this pitch torch, way too big for my hands. I have no idea how I found it, how I reached it, they were always so high up. But I took it and I...  
“I put it on my arm. My family died in fire, and I should as well, that was it. I was a part of my family, they were gone, and there was this... hole in me. Fire filled it.  
“God, it hurt. I remember, screaming, fucking - _screaming_... I don’t think I wanted it to stop, I wanted to die, I wanted to go in fire. But Bobby―”  
Dean took a shuddering, steely breath, swallowing hard. “Bobby pulled it off me, covered me in a cloak, made the sizzling stop. It smelt like bacon, like Missouri’s Sunday roasts. Like Mom used to make. God - God, that’s sick.” He shook his head, burying his nose in his pillow.  
“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said, pressing his hips closer into Dean’s, hooking their legs together. “You’re okay now.”  
“I’m not, Cas.”  
Castiel only gave a questioning look, but already knew his reasoning.  
“I can still feel it, that emptiness. Grief... it does some crazy things to people, Cas.”  
Castiel kissed Dean, slow and steady. “So does love.”  
Dean cried, then. He tried to hide his tears in his pillow, but Castiel turned his face so he could wipe them for him, brushing them away with his thumb. They kissed, and they kissed, and they wiped away more of Dean’s tears as they fell, trailing between their kisses and making them salty.  
Soon enough Dean’s emotion subsided to a low simmer, and he laughed, embarrassed, but Castiel smiled, pleased that Dean could share this with someone after so many years. He waited a few more minutes, staring at Dean’s slow-blinking eyes, then pulled half-out of the covers to blow out the candles by the bedside; the others in the room had long ago burned to nothing.  
His lower stomach hovered over Dean’s face as he stretched across, and he was forced to bend over in a laugh as Dean pressed a tickly kiss to his skin, trailing his lips over his abdomen. As Castiel sank back under the sheets, the blue gloom of night swallowed them. He found Dean’s lips in the dark, and Dean growled against him, hands twisting over his naked skin as they held each other.  
“You know,” Castiel mentioned, voice as low as he could make it, so as not to break the strange spell that was over them, “I missed one more. You have one other scar.”  
“Oh God, don’t tell me it’s my broken heart or something,” Dean joked, shoving Castiel lightly.  
“No, not that.”  
“Then...?”  
Castiel smirked playfully, even though he knew Dean couldn’t see it. He slid his hand down the flat of Dean’s stomach, through the hair that was rougher the lower he got. Dean tensed, but Castiel heard a tiny huff as he grinned as Castiel’s hand fell between his legs.  
“There’s nothing―” Dean started, but Castiel’s hand rounded his cockhead, thumb pressing ever so gently to the line an inch or so below it. “Oh.”  
Castiel murmured a laugh.  
“Circumcision - that’s not a scar,” Dean objected. His cock gave a feeble pulse in Castiel’s hand and Castiel stroked his length teasingly. Dean probably rolled his eyes, right before he rolled his body atop Castiel’s.  
Castiel made an ungainly squawk of excitement as Dean’s hand found Castiel’s own cock without hesitation. Dean laughed and tugged, and Castiel had no thoughts other than to return the favour. It didn’t last long - it was hasty and quiet, no words exchanged. Castiel only heard the hiss of Dean’s breath as he knelt above him, and the slap of skin and wet slip of their hands; Dean licked his own hand at one point, bringing it back to Castiel’s cock with a sigh, squeezing. Castiel moaned under his breath as he came, Dean’s hot splash following not long after.  
Dean shuffled out of bed to get their cloth, cold and damp and gross now, but Dean made quick work of their stomachs before launching it back to the ground. They rolled apart, a single kiss exchanged before they fell to either sides of the bed.  
Castiel felt cold without him. Apparently, Dean felt the same, because only a minute later he turned into Castiel’s side, wrapping his arms around him and burying his nose in Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel turned to look at him, only making out the dark shape of his hair beside him, before feeling the blanket of sleep covering his senses.  
He never wanted to sleep without Dean again.  
~  
Castiel awoke in a blaze of warm sunlight, but the loss of a human body beside him did not escape his notice. He kept his eyes closed. The sound of Dean’s footsteps filled his ears, barefoot on the wooden floor. The washroom door creaked open, shut, a long silence, then open again.  
There was the clink of Dean’s sword on his belt, the rustle of material as Dean got dressed. Dean sat on the bed to pull his trousers on, narrowly missing sitting on the side of Castiel’s foot under the blanket as the bed sank under him. Castiel’s breathing remained as calm as the rest of him. The warmth of the sun on his back was like a caress, like Dean’s hands were still on his skin.  
It was only when the footsteps paused, then began to fade, that Castiel opened his eyes and sat up. “Dean?”  
Dean stilled and turned back, fully dressed in black with his sword at his side, boots on. He said nothing, only met Castiel’s eyes for a long while, before returning to his quiet pace toward the door. He opened it, then slipped through and closed it behind him, his boots tapping on the steps of the staircase. Castiel was alone now.  
~x~


	3. III

Castiel had stopped speaking, probably because Sam was so close to sleep that every few breaths he snored. He lay on the edge of Castiel’s bed with his back to the room, trying not to get too close to Castiel and his injured shoulder. Sam could feel his eyes drooping, jaw slack.  
“Nuh, don’t stop,” he mumbled, slurring every word.  
“You should sleep. I don’t need as much rest as you do.”  
“‘m awake,” Sam lied, the room rather more squishy around the edges than he’d gotten used to.  
“You are very much like Dean,” Castiel told him, smiling. “You resemble him, even if it’s not a physical resemblance.”  
“Weird.”  
“Not really, given your relation.”  
Sam may have fallen asleep then, for a second or for several hours, he couldn’t be sure. But then, there came a creak of a wooden door being swung open, and a chilly blast of air brushed Sam’s bare feet only a moment before he felt a pinch on his ear.  
“Up, boy, that ain’t your place.”  
“Bobby, please,” Castiel beseeched, a hand reaching out to pull Sam back, but he winced and let it fall to his side. “He meant no harm.”  
“Yeah, well, you’d say that,” Bobby said, not caring that Sam was struggling against the pinching fingers on his ear, as he was wrenched from sleep and pulled from the bed. “Would Dean think so, though?”  
Castiel looked at Sam guiltily. “He trusts Sam.”  
“Trust ain’t the same as knowing a man’s been in your lady’s bed. Or man’s.”  
Bobby traipsed Sam back to the open door, only letting go of his ear when he was flung into the night, Bobby shutting the door behind him and joining Sam.  
“You idjit,” he said slowly, snarling. “Five years they’ve been without each other, and you come along and suddenly you try to take his place?”  
“I’m not―” Sam gasped, rubbing his ear furiously, “I’m not taking Dean’s place! I don’t want - _that_ \- from Cas. Seriously, he was telling me about all the times he kissed Dean, and - God - _worse_ , way worse.”  
“Your brother, Sam! You don’t think he’d be pissed off that you even got to _see_ that dumb-ass angel?”  
“Fallen angel,” Sam corrected, then stood a little awkwardly, realising it wasn’t really relevant right now. “Wait, what’d you mean, brother?”  
Bobby’s face drew back, annoyed expression falling to a more sombre collection of lines in the moonlight. “Figure of speech, kid.” Then his face softened, sucking in a breath. “Keep your distance, all right? It’s nice that you and Castiel there are bonding and whatnot, but... Dean won’t thank you for gettin’ too touchy-feely.”  
Sam was going to argue that they weren’t, but he saw the point, and forced his mouth closed. “Fine.” He crossed his arms. It was really very chilly.  
“Let’s get someplace warm,” Bobby suggested, leading Sam back to the round room with the stone steps all around the edges, fire still burning in the middle. “What’s Castiel been tellin’ you, exactly?”  
Sam was close to blushing. Castiel hadn’t elaborated on too many details, but his recounting was fleshed out enough that it was probably too much for a young man to be hearing. There was something about the way that both Dean and Castiel told their story though, the passion in their words, how they really wanted to tell someone. It kept it interesting for Sam, and despite wincing at the more explicit parts, or at things Castiel had a tendency to mention that Sam really didn’t want to know - he was enjoying it.  
“Dean just randomly took off after a night together. Cas was like, really lavish on the details about exactly how Dean looked at him. He turned back and was all, throwing thoughts at him, all confused ones. Like he needs to tell someone what he did, kind of thing. Guilty.”  
“That’s Dean for you. Tells ya he knows what he’s doing and then gets there and realises he ain’t got a clue, but plows into it anyway. Comes out all right in the end.”  
“Actually,” Sam said, shuffling in his seat and tapping his hands together. “Cas mentioned you. Right at that point. Dean was telling him about you.”  
“Oh, _that_ night. Yeah, they told me about that one. And...” Bobby’s eyes drifted into the distance, picking up a half-full mug of something from his side and taking a sip. “Dean came to see me, that mornin’.”  
“That’s where he went?”  
Bobby nodded, sipping again, swallowing heavily. “That was the mornin’ I put all the puzzle bits together.”  
Sam hugged his legs, interested.  
“Do I gotta...?” Bobby asked with a sigh, and Sam smiled slyly, nodding. Bobby didn’t seem too upset, perhaps pleased he had a part to play in this after all. “All right, brace yourself, ‘cause I ain’t a storyteller.”  
~x~  
Bobby had been awake far too long, and hell, his shift was long over. He was slumped against the side of the confession booth, wooden grill pressing its pattern into his cheek as he snored.  
The door on the other side slammed, and Bobby snorted himself upright. “Ten ‘Hail Mary’s and a promise not to go there again,” he slurred, eyes twitching.  
“Bobby, it’s me,” Dean said from the seat, slouching over his legs. Bobby knew that was how he was sitting; that was always how Dean sat when he was thinking, or about to confess. He knew Dean well.  
“Spill sharpish, I’m off duty.” He was grumpy when he was tired, especially when he was asked to do churchy things. But for Dean, he always made an exception.  
Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair, Bobby just seeing the movement through the grill.  
“Sharpish means fast, kid. This ain’t fast.”  
“I know, I know, I’m...” Dean swallowed audibly. “I did something.”  
“Figures, since you’re here. _Spill_.”  
Dean sighed through his open mouth, tapping his foot. “I, uh, I slept with someone who I wasn’t meant to sleep with.”  
“Married?”  
There was a pause. Dean shook his head, “No.”  
“Already got a guy?”  
“No.”  
Bobby’s eye twitched again, irked that Dean was making him guess. But at least if he got there, he could get to bed, so he humoured him. “Too young?”  
“Heh, nope.”  
“I don’t think it’s really a sin, but, too old?”  
Dean laughed gently. “Not that.”  
Bobby was near enough out of options. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the grill, gauging Dean’s reaction: “You didn’t do something nasty to that horse o’ yours, did you?”  
Dean recoiled, expression crumpling at Bobby’s face on the other side. “No! Ew, Bobby!”  
“You kinda boxed me in, what else is there?”  
Dean hesitated, eyes flicking away from Bobby’s for a few seconds. “Pull the grill up, Bobby, you probably wanna look at my face properly before I’m ruined forever.”  
Bobby frowned, but obliged, nudging the wooden slat upward so the tiny window was empty space. He studied Dean’s face, noticing how he was finding it hard to meet his eye. “Do I really want to know this?”  
Dean licked his lips, settling back on his thighs with his hands clutching and unclutching between them. “Doubt it.”  
“I’d say I’d still love you no matter what, but I ain’t got a clue what you did that’s so bad. So goddamn come clean already.”  
Dean closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. “I slept with a guy.”  
“A... guy?”  
“Yeah. As in, another male. A boy. A man, with a dick. As in, not a girl. Kissing happened, and sex happened, and... goddamn other stuff - you don’t need to know about that.”  
Bobby rolled between surprise and horror, a hint of confusion thrown in. Eventually he calmed down, and he realised Dean was waiting for a reply. “That’s the second time I’ve gotten that confession since last night,” he muttered, lip pressed up in a fascinated shrug.  
“What?”  
Bobby turned to peer at Dean’s unsettled expression in the adjacent booth. “You wouldn’t happen to be bumpin’ uglies with certain gravel-voiced angel, by chance?”  
“Uh?”  
“I ain’t meant to give away secrets, but he came in last night and apologised for bein’ about to do the exact same thing you just confessed to.”  
Dean let out a shocked breath, a hand trailing through his hair. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed.  
“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” Bobby said, eyebrows raised. “I told him to quit while he’s ahead. I should tell you the same thing, kid. I might not be a saint, but... I know right and wrong, and this... this ain’t right.”  
“What’s wrong with it, exactly? I mean yeah, men and women go together; Adam and Eve, Sodom and Gomorrah, blah blah, but... what if a guy, you know, just... found... comfort. In another guy.”  
Bobby winced internally. Wow, Dean was way gone. “Your angel boyfriend asked me why, as well.”  
“And?”  
“I ain’t here to discuss the why’s and what if’s of religion, dammit,” Bobby said with a weary sigh. “You’re better off asking Rufus, he’s the one with the God-calling.”  
Dean lurched forward. “Don’t tell Rufus.” He was scared, Bobby could see he was.  
“I won’t, you’re good. This ain’t something to be spread around, I get it.”  
Dean licked his lips and slumped against the back of the wooden box. “I know it’s wrong. It’s not just that it _feels_ good, I mean, it’s - it’s not the sex, or... or that he’s a guy. Hell, the fact he’s a guy was kind of the reason I pansied around for so long. But it’s... it’s him, Bobby. He’s somethin’.”  
“This ain’t like your thing with Cassie, is it?” Bobby asked. “I could see that one wasn’t gonna last, we all did. If this one’s headed in the same direction, get the hell out, Dean. Every dirty thought is sending you down the wrong way.”  
Dean scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “I don’t know where this is going.”  
“Then get the hell―”  
“If this one ends, it’s because someone else puts a stop to it. Me ‘n Cas... I think we’re set. We’re good.”  
“You gonna tell me you’re in love, next?” Bobby sniffed, too tired to roll his eyes.  
There was a long silence, and Bobby almost thought Dean had left. But then he noticed him staring sullenly at the floor, crease between his eyebrows.  
“I...”  
“Don’t tell me, kid. Don’t wanna know.”  
Dean nodded gently. “It’s stupid.”  
“You can say that again,” Bobby growled, hand over his eyes, rubbing sore eyeballs with his thumbs.  
“Did Cas say anything else last night, when he saw you?”  
Bobby looked over to the young man who was near enough his son, considering his hopeful eyes and uncombed hair. “Told me he didn’t give a damn what God thought, he was gonna screw this guy if it was the last thing he did. And believe me, it sure is gonna be the last thing you do.”  
“That a threat?” Dean asked lightly, half his face quirked in a smile.  
“Not my own. But yes, you got bad things a-comin’, Dean.”  
“I’m gonna... take a page from Cas’ book, here, Bobby. God’s rule book can say what it likes, but me? I’m goin’ back to my room, and if he’s still there, I’m gonna..” Dean grinned. “I’m gonna screw him again.”  
“You know I really gotta go wash my ears out now,” Bobby grumbled.  
“Yep,” Dean said, standing up, hand on the hilt of his sword. He pushed the door to the confession booth open, stepping into the dim light of the church, light still low as it was only just past dawn. “Screw him niiice and slow and easy.”  
“You’re going to Hell, y’idjit.”  
“Nice seein’ you too, Bobby,” Dean grinned, knocking twice on the wood of the booth, before stalking off.  
“Goddamn fool,” Bobby muttered, head in his hands. He waited until the echoing footsteps in the church died away to nothing.  
“God, you there?” He spoke to the air around him, eyebrows bristling upward. “Take care of that kid, won’t you? I can’t fix his head but he’s in serious need of some fixin’.”  
He snorted. “If you can’t change his mind, at least keep him safe. Secret. His life’ll be over if anyone finds out. Guess I got some serious coverin’ up to do now.”  
Bobby tapped his foot then stood up, cricking his back. “Balls.”  
~x~  
“Do you hear that?” Sam asked, sitting up from his slump. His ears pricked, he was picking up on something right at the edge of his senses.  
“Just the wind, Sam.” Bobby blinked, setting down his mug of whatever it was.  
“No, seriously. It’s... hooves? Horses!”  
Bobby paid attention then, standing up and striding to the entranceway, Sam at his heels. Dawn was approaching; the sky was cloudy and grey-blue, seeming to flicker brighter every time Sam blinked. He and Bobby stepped out into the front courtyard of the rundown castle, looking out over the valley below. There was the hill Chevy had charged up last night; now it was dark in the shallow light, barely discernible from the rest of the hills that rolled far into the distance.  
“See anything?” Sam asked, craning his neck.  
“Nada, you’re imagining things.”  
Sam shook his head, straining his ears, noticing that Bobby held his breath too. There it was again. “I hear it, hoofbeats, on grass.”  
“Yeah, yeah, I hear it too,” Bobby said, already leaning over the bailey of the castle, squinting. “There!” he said suddenly, pointing.  
Sam followed his direction, seeing three horses, their riders in dark armour; trotting straight for the castle.  
“Guardsmen,” Bobby said, a hand on Sam’s chest, pushing him back. “Take Castiel, get him out. Get him some place safe. The only way is out by the horses, so you’re gonna have to hide him in the castle. He knows his way around,” Bobby continued, still pushing Sam back, toward the door to the room Castiel was sleeping in. “He’ll take you someplace he can hide, I’ll slow them down.”  
“Will you be okay?” Sam asked, concerned, stopping before Bobby shoved him through the open door.  
“Kid, I’ve taken care of these bastards for twice as long as you’ve lived, I can handle three of ‘em.”  
Sam nodded, finally stepping back inside the room, the door closing behind him.  
“Sam?” came a croaky voice.  
Sam turned to Castiel, arm out to help him as he tried to sit up. “There’s Guard people, we have to hide.”  
“Is Dean back yet?” Castiel asked, swinging his legs out of the bed, fur blanket pooling in his lap. Sam shook his head, and Castiel bit the back of his lip. “I need clothes.”  
Sam looked around helplessly, eventually just pulling his own poncho off his shoulders, feeling the chill straight away, left in only his shirt. Castiel took it and hung it over himself, standing up; it came to his mid-thigh, and he looked ridiculous, but they didn’t have time to worry about that.  
Castiel took Sam by the arm and dragged him to the back of the room, the side opposite the door, beyond which Bobby’s voice called out, loudly and gruffly, “Good morning! How may I help you?”  
Castiel took hold of a wonky tapestry hidden behind a collapsed shelf, shoving it aside and revealing a wooden door the size of his chest. He tugged the metal ring with his good arm, grunting as it gave way and swung outwards.  
“Close it behind you,” he whispered, crawling into the square hole, having trouble not kneeling on the poncho as it dragged in front of him. Sam was glad that it covered the man’s rear end, as he was stuck behind it as they crawled forward, the sides of the space were made of stone, a little damp, but not overly cramped. He turned and shut the door, hearing the tapestry swing back into place behind it.  
The passage was only short, and they came out in a wooden room, with an open door in the side through which Sam could see the circular room, the fire still spitting in the centre.  
“Follow me,” Castiel said, voice weak. He gasped as he took a step, and Sam held a hand to his back to help him. For a moment, he felt like Dean, following the fallen angel blindly through corridors and having no idea where he was being led.  
~  
“Good morning! How may I help you?” Bobby shouted, not feeling nearly as polite as he made out to be. The shadows of Guardsmen made their way up to the drawbridge, and were forced to dismount because the path grew too narrow.  
“Only step on the grey planks!” he instructed. “Not the brown!”  
The first of the Guards stepped foolishly on the middle grey plank, and the bridge creaked and collapsed under his foot; he shouted and tumbled over the side and into the moat.  
“I’m an old man,” Bobby growled to the remaining men. “I messed up, my bad. I meant the brown ones.”  
One man gestured to the other, pointing an instruction. Seeing it, Bobby waited until the first was on a side bridge, before kicking the portcullis lever. It whistled down and hit the bridge with a clack, sending it splintering into planks. The second man went down with a yell, tumbling into the moat alongside the first. Bobby chuckled to himself.  
The third man hopped up the stone steps at the side. He made it as far as where Bobby stood, leaning nonchalantly against the castle wall, looking out over his dominion.  
“Nice day, ain’t it,” Bobby said.  
The man snorted and drew his sword with a whine of metal. “Not for you.”  
Bobby bumped his eyebrows. “So says you.” And then he ducked the swat of the blade, tripping the man by his knees. He kicked back, but Bobby overpowered him with his sheer superior mass. The man flailed wildly for a moment, dropping his sword, as Bobby clung to his legs, heaving him up, over his shoulder - then throwing him over the side, sending him after his friends into the water. He screeched as he fell, and hit the surface with a splash.  
“Great day for swimmin’,” Bobby muttered, wiping his hands together. It wasn’t over yet; he still had to send the devils on their sorry way, back to the hellmouth they came from.  
~  
“Where are we going now?” Sam asked, holding Castiel up as he struggled to keep himself standing. Castiel’s shoulder was bleeding again, the stitches straining. They left the roofed part of the castle, hobbling along an outside wall, only a short brick line keeping them from a long drop to rocks below.  
“To one of the turrets. We can see anyone coming from there,” Castiel replied, grunting a small, weak sound.  
They passed back inside, into some kind of wooden structure with some stairs ahead. Sam let go of Castiel to lead the way, seeing light ahead; it was so very close to dawn now.  
“Mm, not so fast,” a voice said, deep and smooth. A blade flashed, and Sam stepped backwards, Castiel colliding with his shoulder and whimpering.  
“Uriel,” he breathed against Sam’s ear, either to inform Sam, or to greet the newcomer, Sam had no idea. “Sam, go,” he ordered, trying to push Sam past the large black man.  
“No, no,” Sam said, tugging Castiel toward him. Uriel was grinning maniacally, sword like a line of death in front of him. He held it in a more menacing way than Sam had ever seen a man hold a sword.  
“He won’t kill me, Sam―”  
“Don’t be so sure, Castiel,” Uriel crooned. Sam took his chance and headbutted Uriel in the gut.  
“ _Oof!_ ”  
“Cas! Come on!” Sam grabbed Castiel by the hand and, half-dragging him, ran towards the daylight, scaling up a set of stairs that were slippery with moss. They breached the grey light of very early morning, coming out onto a flat stone circle with a stone rim. Castiel gasped and collapsed on the stone, Sam closing the trap door behind them as Castiel crawled away.  
Castiel was coughing, struggling for breath as his injury tore at his shoulder. The trap door rattled, and Sam rushed forward to sit on it, keeping Uriel down. They were safe enough for now, but they were trapped here until help came. Both he and Castiel were unarmed, Castiel was wounded, and they had nowhere to go.  
Uriel shouted from below, thudding angrily on the wood under Sam.  
It was light now, not quite dawn, but bright enough to make out Castiel’s drawn face, his round, scared eyes. Sam looked around, panting - hills everywhere, rocks, mountains in the distance.  
The trap door shivered, then Sam was thrown off it in shock as a sword split between two planks - he was thrown sideways, hitting Castiel as he righted himself.  
Castiel tumbled off the side of the turret.  
“Sam!”  
“ _Cas!_ ” He'd managed to catch Castiel's uninjured arm, but he was only a hand slip away from plunging to his death. He was human now, according to Ruby; if he fell, he had no angel mojo to catch him.  
Uriel rattled the trap door, thumping at it loudly; it was stuck.  
“Sam, please!” Cas cried, legs swingingly pointlessly in the air.  
“I can’t pull you up, I can’t―” He tried, and kept trying, but he was simply not strong enough. It was just enough that he was not pulled over the side as well; Castiel was probably heavier than himself.  
“Sam!” Cas screamed, eyes wide with terror, arm pale and straining, hand locked but slipping. He was slipping―  
“No - no!” Sam cried, fingers clicking together as Castiel slid from his grasp.  
He lurched forward, trying to reach Castiel as he fell, but he was already gone, eyes still on Sam’s as he tumbled, slow like a falling leaf, impossibly slow - Sam’s mind gradually stalled, realising all the things that were going wrong in that very moment.  
Castiel fell, and fell, and fell.  
The sun broke over the mountains, reaching the turret in a flash of light. Castiel’s screams rang in Sam's ears, and Sam gasped, half-over the castle wall, still trying to reach the outstretched arm.  
Sunrise touched Castiel’s falling fingertip. It overtook his descent, and swallowed his body in light.  
Sam could only watch as Castiel did not stop falling, but vanished inside the brown wool poncho that flapped about him like a pair of wings - no, he _was_ the wings. He had wings!  
Castiel flapped and screeched, letting the poncho fall to Earth harmlessly. He flew out, away from the castle, spreading to his full wingspan. His wings blotted out the line of sunlight to Sam’s eyes, as Sam’s gaze followed the trail that the hawk blazed into the sky.  
Sam sat back on his heels, staring out in wonder at the screeching bird that became a V as he glided over a distant hill. He was flying awkwardly, still affected by his injury.  
Uriel thrust up through the trap door with a final grunt, shouldering his way onto the turret. He paused as he saw only Sam, who was kneeling serenely by the edge, not turning to look at him.  
“Where did Castiel go?” Uriel asked, tone curious, surprised.  
“He flew away,” Sam said.  
Uriel snorted, coming up behind him. Sam turned to look at him, seeing the gashes over his bald head where Dean had hit him with a pitchfork the previous day. It was barely healed, still matted with red.  
“Where did he go?” Uriel asked again, raising his sword, ready to strike Sam’s head from his shoulders.  
“I told you,” Sam said, calmly. “He flew away.”  
Uriel let out a frustrated yell, sword lifting higher - then there was a swish of a crossbow arrow, and he grunted. Sam saw the arrow in Uriel’s neck long before he registered the bulk of a man falling from the side of the turret. Nobody caught him, nobody reached for him, and he didn’t become a bird. Sam looked over the edge and saw his crumpled body in a heap on the rocks. Turning back, Sam went to locate the source of the arrow that had saved his life.  
On a rock, a good few feet lower than the turret, stood a very naked Dean Winchester, legs in a power stance, swinging his crossbow down from his shoulder.  
Dean waved. Sam laughed and waved back.  
~  
“Whoa, put some clothes on.” Sam winced, closing one eye and covering half of the other with his hand.  
“I’m trying. Where’s my horse gone?”  
“You can’t call her?”  
Dean grimaced, holding his crossbow in front of him. Sam braved opening his eyes and tried not to look directly at the other man.  
“Uh,” Dean said, looking around. “Chevy!” His voice was rough and dry, squeaking a note on the last ‘ _ee_ ’ of his horse’s name.  
There was no reply. Sam whistled. Dean frowned and pursed his lips as his horse poked her head out from behind a rock, nickering with grass in her mouth.  
“Dammit, girl. Get over here.”  
Chevy obeyed, trotting so she was between Dean and Sam. Dean rummaged through the saddlebag, dragging out his underthings and pulling them on.  
“How was your, uh, run?” Sam asked, sneaking around the horse and leaning on her side as Dean grappled for his shirt.  
“Great, thanks,” Dean said, voice like sand over stone. “Not that I remember it, I kind of... snapped between there and here, and now I’m friggin’ exhausted.”  
Sam considered the shorter man, his rumpled hair and shaky limbs. He really did look like he’d been running all night. “You never remember anything?”  
“Take it Bobby told you all about this thing then, this curse.” Dean swallowed sharply, wincing. “I’d expected a lot more ‘oh no, you’re kidding me’ and ‘are you sure you didn’t just make it up?’.”  
Sam smiled slowly. “Cas told me a lot too.”  
Dean stopped pulling his trousers on to look at Sam. “You’ve talked to Cas?”  
“Only a bit. Mostly he kept on with your story, from where you left off.”  
Dean stared at Sam for a bit, then shrugged himself back into doing up his trouser buttons. There came a sudden screech from the sky - down descended a pair of wings, flapping as they reached for Dean’s forearm. He raised it automatically and let the bird perch on him.  
“AoowwwAAAH!” Dean screamed, shaking Castiel off and sending him in a confused tumble to the ground. He landed on his feet and glared up at Dean disapprovingly. Dean snarled at him. “Talons, dude!”  
Sam watched him pull back his sleeve to reveal a neat line of gently bleeding claw marks. Sam sucked in a lungful of air through his teeth sympathetically.  
“I’m pleased as hell to see you alive, Cas,” Dean said, softly, glancing gratefully towards the castle as Bobby's shape came into view, “but _God_ , wait until I’ve got something on my arm.”  
Dean shook his head and went for the saddlebag again, probing for something. He withdrew a leather arm protector, which he wrapped around his forearm, stoically ignoring the blood that collected on his fingers as he tied it. Castiel waited patiently on the ground, looking very small compared to when he was in flight. One wing was held awkwardly, blood clotted and smeared all down one side. Dean held out his arm with a grunt, and Castiel hopped up, a wash of air spreading from his wings and ruffling Sam’s trouser legs.  
Dean stroked Castiel’s feathers, and Sam pointedly ignored the sudden wateriness that flooded Dean’s eyes. Sam was very cold, given he no longer had his poncho. Dean didn’t look cold: he was still sweating, but was slowly finding himself sniffing, nose getting chilled in the morning crispness. Dean cleared his throat and looked away from his bird, blinking with his eyes lowered.  
He tugged his horse by the reins towards the castle, seeing Bobby hopping down from a rock and making his way over.  
“One dead, three turning tail as we speak,” said Bobby.  
“That last guy turned up out of nowhere,” Sam said, overtaking Bobby by a step as they neared the broken drawbridge.  
“Uriel,” Dean said, nodding. “I saw him sneaking around the side just as I turned. Found Chevy and my crossbow just in time,” he said, patting his horse on the neck. She whinnied in reply.  
“Nice shot,” Sam grinned. He shouldn’t be so pleased that a man had died right before his eyes, but yet again, he owed Dean his life - plus, it had been a pretty neat shot.  
Bobby grumbled under his breath, “Always is.” He led them over the drawbridge, Dean and Sam both knowing to step only on the brown planks. Chevy stayed on the grassy side, and Dean petted her nose before following the other men.  
“I require three things right now,” Dean said, his entire demeanour heavy with fatigue. “Water, food, and sleep. In that order.”  
“That,” said Bobby, “I can do.”  
~  
Dean guzzled his water, scoffed his food, then promptly lay down on the same bed Castiel had lain on not an hour before. He breathed in the pillow deeply, then withdrew his face with a growl of disgust, declaring angrily that it smelled too much of Bobby.  
He was silent for about ten seconds, and then began to snore.  
Sam chuckled, downing the last of his own cup of water. He was again wrapped in the blanket he had begun the night lying on. Bobby rolled his eyes fondly, then without another word, left Sam to sleep as well.  
He curled up on the ground, then stretched out, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Ten, nine, eight, seven... six... five... f...  
~  
Sam woke when he heard a door slam, which was followed by a “whoops”.  
Blinking languidly, he sat up, aching from the hard floor. The daylight was brighter, and the sun was shining, but not radiantly, more like a dim glow. It must be late afternoon, and Sam could smell the flat scent of woodsmoke.  
Grunting, he got up, following the clattering noises and the growing smell of cooking food.  
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, looking up when he saw a bleary-eyed Sam approaching him as he tied his saddlebags to Chevy’s sides. “You comin’ with, or you staying?”  
“You’re leaving already?”  
“I got a curse to break, remember.”  
“Ngh, not again,” Bobby grunted from around the corner, stepping out into the shaft of watery light that was half-hidden by the castle’s turrets far above. “I told you, Dean. Wait a few days, you’ll actually get your problem solved.”  
“Bobby?” Sam asked, rubbing his eyes.  
Bobby sighed heavily, in the manner of someone resigned to telling a story they had told many times before. “Four days from now, I worked it out. Dean here is trapped in eternal daytime, because the sun shines out of his ass, and Castiel goes by night for the same damn reason. In four days, it won’t _matter!_ ” He spoke directly to Dean again, tone very forceful. “A day without night, a night without a day, I worked it out, you dumbass!”  
“Prophecies are vague, Bobby.” Dean shook his head, mounting his horse. “Besides...” he lowered his eyes, “you’ve been wrong before. And you’ve betrayed us before.”  
Sam looked between them, realising again that he only had half the story. “Bobby? _Bobby_ was the one that betrayed you and Cas?”  
Bobby said nothing, head turned down in shame, and Dean looked away into the distance, watching the shadows of the clouds crawl over the sunlit mountains. That was all the confirmation Sam needed.  
“Wow,” Sam breathed, chin to his chest. “But, Dean,” he added, looking up at the rider as Chevy stepped forward, but stopping as Sam spoke. “You’re not even going to try it? Whatever it is Bobby’s suggesting?”  
“I’m suggestin’ - all he needs to do is to wait for the day and night to cross at once, and get Death in the same place. Him and Castiel, as human beings, all at once.”  
“They’ll be human together?”  
Bobby grumbled for a moment. “Death made a prophecy - another damn prophecy.”  
Dean interrupted, eyes still on the path toward Zamreer. He spoke for Sam’s benefit: “He said there would be a night without a day, and a day without a night. It makes no sense.”  
“It didn’t make any sense when he said ‘you are the day, while Castiel is the night’,” Sam said, recalling the first prophecy. “And now here you are, a person in the day while Cas is a person at night.”  
Dean closed his eyes. “I’m not going to believe the word of an old drunk. No offence, Bobby,” he said, turning to Bobby with a shadow in his eyes. “I’m real grateful you saved Cas from bleeding out, but...” he licked his lips, “sometimes your theories are a little hard to believe.”  
Sam snorted. “Really? That’s really your argument here?”  
Dean squinted at him.  
“You believe in God, and angels, and magic, and ghosts, and God knows what else, and you have a _curse_ on you, and you’re still gonna―”  
“I have a sword, Sam! This sword kills anything. It’ll kill her, and it’ll do it right.”  
Bobby snorted furiously. “I’m giving you an out, Dean. Way I figure it... Look, don’t let it go on forever. Just _wait_ a few more days. Death said if you kill Meg before the time’s right, you’ll be trapped. _Castiel_ will be trapped. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”  
Dean’s jaw tensed tight. “Don’t _guilt_ -trip me. Just don’t, Bobby. I’ve heard enough.”  
Sam clenched his fists in frustration. How could Dean just ignore this?  
“Dean, listen to yourself!” he said, stepping toward Chevy. “You have a chance to change things, without killing anyone! You need to be patient - if Bobby’s right, if you kill her before these four days are up, you’ll never be able to break the curse! At least give Bobby’s theory a chance. It’s been five years for you. What’s a few more days?”  
Dean frowned, raising his arm without even looking as Castiel swooped down to perch there. “I’m going. Are you coming or not?”  
Sam gaped at him, exasperated. “You are as stubborn as Cas says. But you’re way stupider than he makes you out to be.”  
Dean turned away to hide his smile. He nudged his horse into a walk. “You comin’ or not?”  
Bobby patted Sam on the shoulder, indicating he should follow Dean. He handed him a small package of food wrapped in a cloth, which Sam took unsurely. Dean was already halfway down the path. Sam would rather have used the washroom, cleaned himself up, and had a sit-down meal before he began to chase a horse, but Dean was rushing ahead.  
Sam paused before he got too far, hopping back up the last few rocks to return to Bobby’s side. “Follow us. I think we can change his mind.”  
“You got high hopes, kid―”  
“Do it, Bobby.” Sam nodded once and hopped off the rocks again, jogging to catch up with the trotting horse.  
“Dean, wait up!”  
Dean turned Chevy slightly as he looked back to see Sam running toward him. “Nice to see you’re not about to take off at the speed of light again,” he said.  
Sam huffed and kept pace with Chevy as she slowed to a walk. “Yeah, well. I hadn’t met Cas properly before last night.”  
“He got to you then,” Dean said with a grin. “He does that.”  
“Plus, I didn’t believe anything you said until I saw a person turn into a hawk.”  
Dean’s grin slipped into a flat line. “How did he do last night? It hurt like hell, figures.”  
Sam nodded, eyeing the back of the saddle hopefully. “Bobby pulled the arrow out, put some gross-looking herbs on it, then let him sleep.”  
“You talked to him though.”  
Sam nodded again. “He woke up in the middle of the night, and he started talking to me, and it just... he told me your story, that night you spent together and...” Dean kept his eyes on his hawk as Sam spoke, and Sam saw a blush rising steadily on his cheeks. “You told him about your scars.”  
Dean looked down at Sam sharply. “How much did he tell you?”  
“Um, about the Reaper Massacre?” Dean was quiet for a while so Sam continued, “I wish I remembered my parents. I get that it’s killing you, knowing they’re gone... I never had that, though. All I got was Ellen, who was great and all, but... a mom, a dad, a proper family. Kind of like you had. I’d want that.”  
Dean was still silent.  
“D-does it still show up?” Sam asked, chin raised to look Dean in the eye. “The scar on your arm?”  
Dean again said nothing, only stared Sam down for a few long seconds. Then he tossed the injured bird from his arm and kicked his horse into a gallop, riding ahead of Sam so quickly that Sam barely registered the jump. The black horse and her leather-clad rider bucked into the far distance, leaving a long line of hoofprints in their wake.  
~  
Bobby grumbled all the way to the stables. “Why are my roadtrips never planned? One day I’d like to see the right side of a map, instead’a blindly following someone else’s damn trail.”  
“Day that happens is the day I give up on roadtrips,” Gabriel replied, stepping out from behind the donkey named Crowley.  
Bobby fetched the carriage from the side, grunting heavily as he dragged it out onto the pathway, aiming it for the road. “Roadtrips ain’t as fun as you think, not when you’re an old man.”  
“They are when you’re a horse,” Gabriel said, tossing his mane to the other side of his head and letting Bobby hook him to the cart.  
“We gotta make quick time, Dean’s being an idjit again.”  
“I’m not the one with the speed problem,” Gabriel snorted, nodding to the dappled black-grey donkey that chewed a mouthful of hay grumpily. “Get a move on you _ass_ , we’ve got some rescuing to do.”  
“It’s not a rescue, it’s an intervention.” Bobby threw a pre-packed bag into the back of the cart, slamming the side down on the cage. He put his hands behind Crowley’s rear and shoved him, ignoring the hooves that ground themselves as he locked his legs.  
“What are we intervening in?” Gabriel asked, making space for the donkey as Bobby attempted to hold him in place as he latched him to the wagon.  
“He’s off to kill the Priestess.”  
“Serves her right.”  
“Not the point.”  
Gabriel trotted on the spot, eager to get moving. “Couldn’t we shove Crowley in the cage this time, let me pull him? Just this once. I swear it’ll be quicker.”  
“If you could work out how to get him to do something as sensible as sitting inside a cage, have at it.”  
Crowley chewed his hay and ignored everything until Bobby, already sitting up top and waiting for the cart to move, kicked the donkey in the rear.  
Gabriel leapt forward, fishtailing the wagon violently for a frightening moment, but then Crowley gave in and began to walk.  
Very slowly.  
~  
Sam kept walking. The sun was on his left, behind him - it was still somewhat cloudy and the light filtering through was weak, but it was unseasonably warm here. It was probably going to blow over soon, because Sam could smell the rain in the air. The distant rumble of thunder had been following him for a while now.  
He’d been keeping an eye on Bobby and his cart, a long, long way behind. In an hour’s worth of travel, they’d covered very little ground; the area remained grassy and rocky, mountains reaching up either side of the small valley.  
Ah, there was Dean, just beyond that hill. He had slowed to a walk, Chevy moving slower than Sam was. They were waiting for Sam to catch up. Sam smiled and sped his pace, but only marginally. He’d catch up eventually, he knew that. Besides, Dean clearly wanted his company.  
When he looked ahead again, Chevy was walking so slowly that Sam almost thought they’d stopped. He got close enough that if he shouted, he’d be heard - but he said nothing, and Dean didn’t even turn around to look for him. He was so sure Sam was following.  
Sam jogged the last few steps, knocking the prickles of a thistle into the grass. As his head came level with Chevy’s shoulders, Dean glanced down.  
“Hey.”  
Sam mirrored his overly casual tone. “Hey.”  
“It’s gonna rain. And it’s almost sundown.”  
“Yup.”  
“We should find shelter.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
Dean didn’t continue, but veered his horse off the direct path down the valley, taking a road that Sam hadn’t even realised was there. It was a line of thinner grass, perhaps once a shallow river, or an track used by animals. Sam checked the road behind them as they turned, not even seeing the cart, as it had fallen so far behind. He recognised that unless Bobby was very careful, he’d miss the turning. As Dean’s back was turned, Sam scuffed the long grass at the side with his boot, making an arrow. It was subtle, and he hoped Bobby would see it, but he had no time to do anything more obvious before Dean turned around to check if he was still there.  
Sam fell in behind Chevy innocently, seeing Dean go back to watching the road. Ahead, the path dipped down, plunging straight into a forest of thick trees.  
“There’s a village in there - but the trees are good, stuff to hide behind.”  
Sam hummed agreement, glad when a cloud moved from in front of the sun and warmth hit the side of his face again.  
~  
“Ohh, la, la laaa!”  
“GABRIEL IF YOU SING ONE MORE NOTE I WILL KILL YOU.”  
“La.”  
Bobby seethed, eyes bugging. Crowley hung his head in relief with his ears twitching. Bobby knew the feeling.  
“This isn’t as fun as last time, where’s the _pace?_ This is _plodding_.”  
Bobby dearly wished he could have left them both at home: the plump, annoying horse that was Gabriel and the infernally callous donkey that was Crowley, but sadly, he had no other way to travel, nor pull the cart.  
The cart was the most important thing; upon it was a square cage, almost the full height of a man, sturdy metal poles at intervals all the way around, making a grid over the roof. The back opened up, and had a set of bar-locks. It was the only thing they had to constrain a fully-grown adult wolf with the temperament and patience of Dean Winchester.  
Crowley began to veer off to one side of the path, straining his grey nose for some messy-looking long grass. Bobby sighed and directed him back to the path with the long rein, just tapping him gently.  
Crowley brayed, hee-hawing pitifully.  
“Shut it, you ninny.”  
Crowley hawed again, turning his nose up and sulking. He then began to murmur a long stream of donkey insults that both Gabriel and Bobby filtered out after a few minutes. They kept on plodding.  
~  
“So you’re not gonna tell me _anything?_ ”  
Dean threw an armful of wood onto the ground, not bothering to actually make a fire; Sam was perfectly capable of doing it himself when it got cold. “If Cas wants to go ahead and share personal information, that’s his issue. But dude, there’s a whole bunch of stuff that it’s pretty obvious I’d rather you didn’t know.” He kicked the firewood and waited for Sam to speak.  
“So I just gotta wait for Cas to tell me everything?”  
“Looks like.”  
“What if, you know, he dies or something.”  
Dean gave him his best death-glare. “If he dies, it’s your fault, and I will hunt you down.”  
Sam took his word for it. “...You sure it’s a good idea though? Leaving him with me all night?”  
“You see anyone else who’ll keep him company?” Dean asked, gesturing at the surrounding woodland. It was dark and shady, the last of the sunlight filtering through the heavy leaves. Thunder still pounded on the sky, and Sam knew it was going to start pouring in a minute or so.  
“You got any rules, or is it just, do as he says, kind of thing?”  
“Don’t leave him on his own, don’t let him wander off, and don’t let him get hurt.”  
“He’s not as delicate as you think.”  
Dean shook his head. “It’s not that, I know he’s tough.”  
“Then?”  
“I don’t want him hurt.”  
“That’s it?”  
Dean shrugged. “What else is there?”  
Sam pursed his lips, and sat on a log. Dean sighed, stroking Castiel, careful not to touch the injury. The arrow had left half of the bird’s feathers ruined on one side, still bloody, despite Dean’s earlier attempts to clean him.  
Then Dean set the hawk on the back of Chevy’s unhooked saddle, Castiel’s claws sinking into the leather as Dean moved to unhook his arm protector.  
“Here, take this.” He wrapped it around Sam’s outstretched arm, clamping Sam’s long sleeve under it. Dean beckoned Castiel to him, letting the hawk flap for a bit as he got his balance. “Take care of him, all right?”  
“I got it.”  
Dean nodded, then disappeared into the darkness, not set to come back until he was human again the following morning.  
Sam looked at Castiel, matching his beady stare with one of his own. Rain hit the leaves above, then began to snap to the ground, pelting Sam’s hair. “Whaddya say we go somewhere with a roof?” he suggested. If Castiel nodded, Sam didn’t notice, because he’d already stood up, hitching up their things to head for the village.  
He saw the light of it before they breached the edge of the trees; Chevy walked calmly out into the torrential rain, only snorting as the shower washed over her. Sam shrugged his now-cold shoulders, only glad for the free bath, though he did bring the hawk closer to his body. Castiel chirped and tried to hide under his wings.  
Sam found a stable, one completely empty of horses. He located a pitch torch, finding another low-burning one and transferring the flame, then setting the new one in a bracket.  
He lifted the saddle off Chevy’s back and rested it on a thick rope tied between two horse stalls. “Almost sunset, Cas,” Sam said to the bird, watching him preen his sodden feathers, having settled on the back of the saddle again. “I should get you some clothes,” he muttered. Castiel screeched gently, accepting the touch of friendly fingers as Sam rubbed down his neck.  
Sam dashed to the entrance, taking a breath before heading out into the rain. There was a tavern across the road; maybe he could get some food later, as he still had some money. He ran around the stable, thankfully finding a cart. He knew where to look; he knew where travellers kept their belongings. But this time, he wasn’t after valuables, only clothes. He found a tunic, a baggy pair of trousers - ah, and here was something he could wear, another tunic, this one not as big. It was warmer than what he had on, anyway.  
He hurried back, the light so dim now that he couldn’t tell the colour of one thing from another. Everything in the rain was a shade of blue. Thunder grumbled at him from above, the lightning lost in cloud.  
The stable was much warmer, and dry orange. He gasped as he got back in, feeling like he’d been swimming. The larger tunic he’d found was actually blue, he was pleased to find. Castiel would like that. He set it next to the bird, alongside the trousers.  
“You’re gonna turn up totally naked, aren’t you,” he said to the hawk, who stared impassively back. “I should give you some privacy.”  
Sam left the stable again, waiting in the overhang of the roof, water spilling in thick streams onto his shoulder. He moved out of the way and took the hawk’s leather arm protector off, and replacing the shirt with the new one. Oh, it was freshly washed, if damp. That was nice. It smelled like pipe smoke, but it was faint.  
The rain hissed in his ears as he replaced the leather on his arm, and he watched people run between buildings, arms over their heads. People headed to and from the tavern, and he could smell the wafting scent of food through the rain, dimmed by the overwhelming aroma of wet weather.  
It must be sunset now, so Cas must have changed already. Sam waited a few more minutes, hoping dearly that Castiel would be wearing clothes by the time he made his way back inside. He’d already seen Dean naked today - one naked man was enough.  
On that thought, he didn’t understand how Dean could want to see a naked man again and again, the same man. Sam knew what liking girls was like, it kind of took up your whole being. Suddenly finding oneself in need of a change of scenery, maybe he could understand that - but permanently? It didn’t look like Dean was ever going back. Sam respected his choice to love one person, but no, he didn’t get it.  
 _Brother,_ he thought with a sigh, _Maybe one day I’ll feel that way for someone. But it would be a girl. Not a man._ He stomped his feet, trying to warm them. _Girl_.  
Sam poked his head inside the stable, scanning the area. He heard a rustle, then saw the flailing arms of Castiel pulling the tunic over his head. He moved spasmodically, his shoulder clearly causing him pain. Sam judged that as safe, and entered.  
“Hey Cas.”  
“Sam,” Cas said, head popping out of the neck of the tunic, surprised to see Sam’s face.  
Sam coughed a laugh. “You’ve - uh - you got that on... backwards.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, the neck of the wool tunic right up at his throat. He turned around and Sam laughed again as he saw the low V-neck halfway down Castiel’s back.  
“These things are so complicated,” Castiel complained, wriggling his arms back into the sleeves and turning the tunic from inside, thrusting his hands back out again as it settled on his shoulders.  
“Just remember to put the V at the front,” Sam said, helpfully.  
Castiel blinked. “I know that. I just seem to do it wrong every time, when it’s not my clothes I’m wearing.”  
Sam’s face broke into a smile. Men may not be Sam’s choice for lovers, but he had to admit, Dean couldn’t really have chosen anyone more... well, adorable. Castiel looked so ruffled, his hair slightly wet, tunic down to his knees. The trousers’ ends pooled on the ground around his bare feet, and Castiel’s eyes seemed permanently wide, as if in awe at the whole world.  
“How is Dean?” Castiel asked, eyes on Sam as he crossed the hay-strewn floor.  
Sam shrugged a shoulder. “He’s glad you’re alive.”  
Cas smiled. “Did he say anything?”  
Sam grinned. “You want me to repeat everything?”  
“Yes, please.” Castiel sat on a mounting block, eager to hear.  
Sam frowned. “Everything?”  
Castiel looked around Sam as he approached, as if looking for a different answer. “Is everything too much?”  
“Uh. He um, said a lot about what you told me. About the scar.”  
Castiel’s eyes changed, became a little darker. “Your parents were lost in those fires as well.”  
Sam nodded.  
“Did... did Dean tell you the part of the prophecy, the one Death gave us?”  
“Bobby said there was another part, about a day without a night and a night with―”  
“Not that part, the other part.”  
Sam sat down heavily on the mounting block beside Castiel, toes scuffing the dirt on the ground. “The part about you and Dean being night and day?”  
“About your relationship.”  
“Mine and Dean’s?” Sam asked, squinting at the fallen angel.  
Castiel nodded serenely. His eye contact was intense, it didn’t seem to leave Sam’s face. He hardly needed to blink, either.  
“Um, I don’t know what Death thought, but, uh, me and Dean, we’re not - we’re not like that.”  
“Like what?”  
“Like... how you and Dean are. In a relationship. He’s all for you, no-one’s getting in the way of that.”  
Castiel’s gaze shifted between Sam’s lowered eyes and his flushed cheeks, searching for an explanation. He almost clicked as he realised. “I do not mean a... sexual, or romantic relationship, I simply mean the way you are intertwined. Your destinies lie together.”  
Sam held back a laugh. “Me and Dean don’t have anything, it’s just the story, this curse of yours. I kind of want to see it through.”  
Castiel shook his head, eyes still on Sam. “You and Dean are closer in destiny than I think you realise.”  
“There something you know that I don’t?” Sam asked, wearily. He was sick of people not telling him things, but he was pretty much used to it now. He didn’t expect anything.  
“I cannot tell you, it’s not my secret.”  
“More secrets?”  
Castiel closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and rested his focus on Sam’s face again. “You and Dean will work it out in due course.”  
Sam kicked his heel on the mounting block frustratedly. There was music drifting in from the tavern, something cheerful and bouncy. Sam listened, but found himself filtering it out after a while.  
“Sam,” Castiel began again, “I am sorry. Both about what happened to your parents, and that I cannot tell you what Dean is to you.”  
“It’s fine,” Sam said, and for the moment, it was. He rubbed a hand through his wet hair, knowing Castiel was still watching him.  
“Do you have any food?” Castiel asked, rubbing at his own knee with a slender hand. “I have not eaten in a long time.”  
“Don’t you eat rabbits and stuff when you’re a hawk?”  
“I catch them for Dean, and he cooks them, but,” he shrugged, “it's like as a human, and as a hawk, I have completely different bodies; anything _I_ eat does not fill the hawk, and anything the hawk eats doesn't fill me.”  
“But the hawk gets stabbed with a crossbow and you end up with an arrow in your shoulder.”  
Castiel put a gentle hand over his heart. “I don’t understand how it works; it shouldn’t be possible.”  
Sam rummaged through the saddlebags and withdrew the last of Bobby’s rations, handing Castiel some very dry cheese. The pack of food must have been put together weeks ago; everything in it was bone dry and solid as a rock. Castiel took it anyway and sank his teeth into it gratefully.  
“I could get you something proper, you know. I have money.” Sam shook the money pouch on his belt, always pleased to hear the jangle of coins.  
“That money is stolen.”  
Sam smirked. “So are your clothes.”  
Castiel touched the wool on his chest with his fingertips. “Yes, I thought they were quite big for you.”  
“We needed them more than they did.” Sam shrugged massively and swung his legs back over the mounting block, tapping his feet in a constant rhythm along with the music he could hear in the distance.  
Castiel swallowed the last of his tiny meal and attempted to rid his teeth of the residue with his tongue, poking the insides of his cheeks. “Maybe later tonight, if we’re both still hungry, we could visit the tavern.”  
“We’ll that’s a definite,” Sam said, glancing at his stomach as it rumbled. The last thing he’d eaten was an apple that had long since wilted in on itself.  
His feet didn’t stop tapping to the music, and as neither of them spoke, they each listened to the notes, how they carried through the rain, distorted and muffled.  
“This is far more cheerful to listen to than anything Dean ever sang to me.”  
“That’s because Dean can’t sing like a flute.”  
“What’s a flute?”  
Sam grinned. “It’s a musical instrument, you hold it up to you mouth like this, and you blow.” He demonstrated.  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “It looks very much like oral sex in reverse.”  
Sam choked on his own saliva, falling off his seat. Castiel stared at him writhing on the ground, then smiled down at him as Sam began to laugh. Then he joined in, and Sam actually held his breath for a moment to hear Castiel’s laugh. It was deep like his voice, but there was a woody quality to it. It was very pleasant; he understood why Dean had spent so long trying to describe his laugh, waving his hands around to put a shape to it in the air.  
Castiel’s laugh lowered to a long hum as he closed his mouth, lips pressed together with tiny crows feet at the sides. His eyes shone, and Sam realised how unused that part of Castiel’s face was, how it was re-learning the contours it made when he smiled.  
It seemed that Castiel had realised this too, and as Sam picked himself off the floor, standing up and brushing himself down, Castiel was stroking his own cheeks, smile fading.  
“I have not laughed... since Dean.”  
Sam felt the sorrow in those words and sat down beside him again, throwing a warm arm around him. “Dean still laughs, but it’s... there’s something missing. I think it’s you.”  
Castiel bowed his head. “Sometimes he does something as a wolf that makes me think, that really is Dean, that is something he would do. But, his humanity is largely gone when he is transformed. He can still make me smile, but... yes, there is something missing.”  
Sam patted Castiel on the back in reassurance. “You’re gonna be together again, we’re gonna get this curse broken. Bobby should be on his way, he has a plan to get it fixed. We just need to delay Dean.”  
“What’s the plan?” Castiel asked, curiosity piqued.  
“I’m... not sure. Bobby says that in four days time...” Sam shook his head. “It’s impossible. You’ll have to ask him. Dean doesn’t believe it either.”  
“You have more faith in Bobby than Dean allows himself to have, not after what happened.”  
“It was Bobby who betrayed you to the Priestess.”  
Castiel sighed and shook his head. “It was an accident. I have long since forgiven him, since I barely blamed him in the first place. Dean was not so keen. Bobby was near enough his father... Dean didn’t understand why such information could be given away so freely, not when it was so important that it be a secret.”  
Sam nodded, sighing through his nose. He ignored the rumble in his stomach, and let the music fill him anew.  
Castiel was sad again, sinking into his cesspool of miserable thoughts. Sam liked it better when he was laughing, so sought to change the subject.  
“Did Dean ever dance with you?”  
“Dance?”  
Sam nodded, standing up and holding an arm to Castiel like a gentleman to a lady.  
Castiel looked at Sam’s extended hand, clueless. “I don’t understand.”  
”You take it, and we dance.” Sam smiled. “Bobby said not to get too cosy with you, but... hey, when the curse is broken, you can ask Dean to dance, and you can be better at it than he is. I bet he’s got two left feet.”  
“Dean’s feet are perfectly symmetrical, apart from the slightly bent toe he has from when Chevrolet stepped on him.”  
Chevy snorted from the other end of the stable. Castiel smiled, then met Sam’s eye. “I still don’t understand,” Castiel said, now hesitantly placing his hand in Sam’s palm, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “What is dance?”  
Sam stopped before he put his free hand on Castiel’s hip. “What?”  
“I may be out of the castle now, Sam, but I have only ever seen the world at a distance. Only at night, and never in civilisation. Always alone in the woods. There are rarely other people.”  
Sam drew his hair back with a hand, shaking his head. “God, you’ve missed so much.”  
Castiel swallowed, eyes drifting past Sam’s ear. “Dean had very little time to show me everything. Between Limn’mere and sexual activity, we didn’t see a great deal.”  
Sam snorted and bit a grin into his lip. “Here, I’ll show you now. Dancing’s like, uh, putting two people together, and moving together, kind of rhythmically, to music.”  
“I don’t think I could let myself... you are very nice, Sam, but Dean is the only person I could touch like that,” Castiel said, stepping out of Sam’s loose embrace, pulling from his hand.  
Sam laughed, reaching for Castiel again, taking his hand back. “It’s not like sex, Cas. It can be intimate, yeah, but not necessarily. Not between friends.”  
“Friends.”  
Sam shrugged. “Yeah, why not. Hi, I’m Sam, friend of Castiel.”  
Castiel smiled, very happily. “Castiel, friend of Sam.” They shook hands. Sam pulled the handshake into a dance position, one hand over Castiel’s shoulder and the other on his waist; Castiel didn’t know what to do at first, but then mirrored Sam, and relaxed.  
“Step like I step.”  
Sam very slowly moved his right foot forward, rocking into the movement. The jaunty music wandered through the stable and drifted between their hands, faint, but carrying them. Castiel moved his left foot, kicking Sam’s toes.  
“Um. No. Your other foot.”  
Castiel moved his own right foot, kneeing Sam. Sam buckled gently with an unnerved cough, but straightened up, grinning. “You’re the one with two left feet, Dean’ll be fine with you. You can just step on each other’s toes.”  
“I will improve. I still don’t really know...”  
Sam rolled his eyes and began to push Castiel gently around the stable, ignoring his tiny squawks when their toes bumped, or when Castiel stepped on his own trousers and tripped, or when Castiel headbutted Sam in the chin. Sam winced and carried on, showing Castiel the movements that his feet were meant to do. Castiel stopped being so clumsy with it after a minute or so, and gradually overtook Sam’s grace, inevitably coming to lead the dance.  
Sam laughed, finding himself swung around over the stable floor by strong arms, one snaked around his waist, almost holding his weight as they rounded corners.  
“Damn, are you a natural at everything?” he asked, shaking his head in amazement as Castiel learned to change the steps, making up a new dance. They pranced from one end to the other, kicking aside hay until only the packed dirt remained under their feet.  
Castiel didn’t answer, only laughing as they turned again, Sam spinning on Castiel’s hand like he had seen girls doing. He didn’t mind that Castiel was leading, nor that they were both men. It was unimportant. The fact of the matter was that this was very fun.  
Sam guffawed as Castiel crashed into a stable partition, knocking it over. “Dean said it best: all the grace of a duck,” he panted, grinning so hard his face hurt.  
“I am usually very dexterous,” Castiel disagreed, propping the partition back upright and wiggling it until it stayed there. “It’s only when I do something new for the first time that I fumble.”  
“If people were as good as you are at stuff, at learning stuff... hell, we’d have climbed so high we’d be in Heaven by now.”  
Castiel smiled sadly at the mention of Heaven.  
Sam slumped onto the mounting block, out of breath. Castiel sat beside him, knees apart with his forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between them. Dean sat like that, and Castiel didn’t. Sam smiled at the fact that Castiel had done it, for whatever reason.  
“I am very hungry.”  
Sam nodded, throat burning as he breathed hard. “Yeah, same. God.” He leaned back, heaving a deep breath as he turned his face upward, eyes closed. “Wanna go to the tavern?”  
Castiel swallowed, pressing his lips tight together. “Dean has never stayed close to any civilisation like this, I don’t think he thinks it’s safe for me...”  
“Nobody’s after you any more, we stopped the Guard guys.”  
Castiel thought about this. “You don’t think they could be after Dean instead?”  
“Why would they want him? You ran away from the city and the Priestess wants you back because you’re ‘hers’, right?”  
Castiel gasped silently, eyes screwed shut and his mouth turned into a tiny downward gape of horror.  
“S... sorry.”  
Castiel shook his head violently. “They are after the both of us, they want me captured and Dean dead.”  
“Why - why did the Priestess curse you and Dean, if she just wanted him dead? Why not just kill him?”  
Castiel hummed a sour note. “You will know when Dean and I reach the end of the story.”  
“It’s gonna have to be you, Dean won’t tell me.”  
The fallen angel nodded. “After we’ve eaten.”  
Sam puffed his cheeks out. “All right, screw Dean, we’re going to the tavern.”  
Castiel stood up first, leading the way to the stable entrance. He waited for Sam, then they stepped out together.  
A horse waited a few paces outside the door, blocking their path. A rider sat atop his steed, hood drawn down. They did not turn to look at Sam or Castiel, but only sat, silent and still, at a perpendicular angle to the stable. Castiel made to walk around, but as Sam followed, lightning caught them all in a blaze of light.  
In that flash, Castiel’s eyes fell upon the rider’s haul, slung over the horse’s back, dangling around its legs: wolf pelts. Bloody, soaking wet; skulls still inside the ripped flesh.  
Castiel keened, a desperate wail that chilled Sam to his toes, a deeper roar than the thunder that followed. “Nooo,” he cried, a hand out to the horse, touching a blood-soaked wolf skin. Sam felt sick with horror.  
The rider half turned in his saddle, water running lines from his hood. Castiel screamed for the wolves he saw, face torn in anguish. Sam looked hard at them as lightning flashed again.  
“It’s not him,” he whispered. He grabbed Castiel by the shoulders, breaking his gaze from the terrors that filled his paralysed eyes. “It’s not him, Castiel! It’s not him!”  
Castiel’s cries died to a pained sob, eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed onto Sam, screaming under his breath into Sam’s shoulder.  
“Cassstiellll,” the rider said, like a snake. His eyes flashed under the darkness of his hood.  
Castiel stopped breathing, looking up sharply at the shape on top of the horse.  
“Find the man, and there’s a _wolf_ ,” the man hissed, a smile with teeth as white as ivory cutting itself into the shadowed void where his face should be. “A black wolf.”  
Castiel was solid with absolute terror, not even able to shiver any more.  
The rider said nothing else, but whipped his horse into a gallop with a whistle of bone-breaking swiftness. He rode into the haze of rain, swallowed by the night.  
Castiel began to breathe again, Sam too shocked to do anything as Cas broke from his arms, falling back inside the stable and running for Chevy. Sam had only had time to stumble back on his own feet as his fear broke over him.  
Chevrolet passed him in a thud of hooves, unsaddled, but Castiel rode on her back effortlessly, whispering her into a powerful wave of movement that Sam had never before seen her capable of.  
“ _CAS!_ ” Sam yelled, but it was too late, and Castiel had vanished, lost into the dark along with the mysterious wolf hunter.  
~  
Castiel rode faster than he’d ever ridden before; Chevy’s hooves pounded the muddy ground and slid over the loose stones. Chevy knew what was at stake, and she knew she had to intercept the horse that had long since vanished ahead.  
They were far beneath the tree canopy, Castiel not even noticing the difference for a while, barely registering the rain any more. Chevy roared, her footsteps slowing to a trot and her head shaking side-to-side, trying to find where she was meant to go. Castiel felt a wave of panic, as he found himself unable to direct her.  
He slipped off her back before she even stopped, and stood among the mushy leaves under his bare feet, concentrating on the sounds that drifted through the darkness. He could just about make out the outlines of the trees, but it was far too dark to see beyond that.  
“Wait here,” he whispered to the horse, taking a few reluctant steps forward, knees bent in a slight crouch. The hooded rider had to be around here somewhere.  
Chevy snorted, catching her breath. Castiel closed his eyes, filtering out the sounds of the trees, of the horse - focusing on the wet footfalls - there!  
Inhaling, Castiel rushed forward, hands in front of him as he fell into a tree, curling himself around its side to peer past it. There was a shadow there, the shape of a man. He was tall, with furs over his shoulders that made him seem bigger. He wore heavy boots, and the wet leaves squashed under his steps. He was walking somewhere, and Castiel was ached to leap out and attack, knowing he should. He knew why this man was here. But the man vanished, the sound of footsteps going along with him, invisible in the shaded forest.  
~  
Dean padded over a log, feeling it wobble beneath him. Everything smelled so bitter in the rain, he had to try extra hard to pick up scents. There were humans out here, somewhere. And smoke, and horses. He stayed away from the village. People were dangerous.  
There was another scent that he was far more interested in, that of another wolf. He followed it, deeper and deeper into the trees, tracking their paws where they had dragged over the ground.  
Female. Female, and looking for a mate.  
He was surprised as his target leapt out at him from behind a tree, a whine low in her throat. Dean growled back, friendly.  
She took a long sniff, nose wrinkling. Her eyes were shiny, glowing like tiny stars in the dark. Dean could see the edge of her fur, puffed up and thick. She smelled fascinating. It had been so long since he’d met another wolf, especially a lone one. They almost always travelled in packs, and were so hard to separate without seeming like a threat. Some company every so often would be nice, was all.  
She snuffled at him, taking a step closer. Dean whimpered, nudging his head forward. She bounded the last gap between them, sticking her nose in his face. He stood still and suffered her assault as she sniffed him all over, right to the tip of his tail then back again.  
He returned the favour, if less thoroughly. He could smell the heat all over her - she wanted to mate, and he didn’t really need much more information than that. She was not a threat.  
Usually wolves searched for a mate _after_ winter, Dean knew that, but right now he didn’t care what season it was. She would mate with him, take him somewhere, and they would live together, raising wolf cubs, chasing each other’s tails. Dean only considered the thought for a second, so very desperate for a settled life that he didn’t consider how much of a decision this was. It was a lifetime agreement.  
She grumbled and rolled over, wrapping leaves over her furry back. Dean made a gruff sound, leaning forward to bite gently at her ears, nose travelling her throat, paws sliding so he was parallel to her.  
She wriggled, letting him stand over her. Then she rolled over onto her front, presenting her rear as she stuck her nose into the leaves on the ground, rumbling a deep chirping noise.  
Dean nudged her ears once more before biting her scruff gently, readying himself. But... he felt an edge inside him, like he was doing something wrong.  
He dropped her scruff, hearing the confused bark she gave as he did so. Dean looked at the back of her head, pointed, thick ears twitching as she waited for him. Dean blinked, backing off.  
She growled and turned to look at him, scent changing to something more admonishing. Dean flicked his ears, lowering his head in apology.  
 _I already have a mate._  
~  
Finally, there he was. Castiel saw the subtle movement of a man slinking through the trees ahead, shoulders hunched. He was a long way away, but Castiel kept his eye on him as he crept forward.  
 _Snak!_ Ferocious metal teeth snapped shut beside his foot. Castiel jumped, gasping. A wolf trap, set off accidentally by a stick as Castiel had brushed past.  
Castiel trembled with a new wash of fear. The man’s traps were going to hurt Dean so badly he would never walk again. He reached to the ground, crouching and spreading his hand away from him, looking for a long stick. He chanced upon one, slimy with mud, and he stood up, holding it to the floor in front of him and swiping it over the leaves in front of his steps, like a blind man.  
He had lost the man’s shape again, far ahead in the trees. He cursed to himself, walking around a tree. A trap snapped on the stick, splintering it. Castiel immediately reached for another stick, finding a leafy branch that was as tall as he was. He struggled to hold it, but it was all he had. Two more traps slammed on the leaves he dragged through them, ripping parts of his branch away.  
He kept walking, pausing every few steps to listen intently. There was sometimes a rustle, a sudden line of padding footsteps, a wolf, or another creature, he couldn’t tell.  
“Dean?” he whispered, noticing how drawn his voice was, physically straining his throat as he spoke. There was no reply, and Castiel moved on.  
Paws patted over the ground again, and Castiel stilled, calling for his wolf once more. He only got a quiet growl in return, and hurried pawsteps as the wolf left. Castiel could not even tell if it was Dean; only his howl was recognisable, his grunts and barks were the same as any other wolf - but every time he howled, he howled Castiel’s name.  
Castiel knew Dean was out here, in the forest, keeping quiet. He moved on, getting desperate. He knew he was headed the right way, for he set off trap after trap, chasing the line of them that the hunter was setting.  
There was silence for a long while. Castiel had to stop, staring around at the trees surrounding him, hand twisting into the tree branch in his grip. Nothing - there was nothing. Only the uneven drip of water through the canopy, and the hiss of rain above. He dared not move, nor use any angel magic. He closed his eyes and relied on sound.  
He felt something; a heat in his face. He shook it away, passing it off as a change caused by the gentle wind. He didn’t breathe, nor open his eyes. He needed to listen.  
He felt it again - clearly breath on his cheek. His eyes snapped open, and he fell back, stunned in sudden shock as he saw a face right in front of him, its crooked nose only an inch from his own. Castiel fell into the leaves, hands rushing out behind him to break his fall.  
“The man,” the hunter determined, pushing words from his mouth like they were curls of smoke. “Where is the wolf, pray?”  
Castiel stuttered, eyes frantically scanning the trees. Dean needed to run. There were too many traps; he'd be caught in no time.  
“Tell me, _man_.” The hunter leaned forward on one knee, resting his forearm upon it as his face loomed into Castiel’s, who was too scared to shuffle backwards. The man’s breath smelt like ash, like rotting meat. Castiel had never smelt a stench so unpleasant.  
“N-no,” Castiel breathed, wishing he could push the man away with only his will.  
“Well, too bad, I hear y―” The man broke off suddenly, twisting his head around, shoulders not moving, only his head. Castiel was almost certain it turned too far.  
The hunter snapped his head back to Castiel’s, wolf pelts swinging over his shoulders to brush Castiel’s face. He could smell the blood on them, old and stale.  
The hunter straightened, and Castiel was able to breathe again, if shakily. The figure was menacing, as he stood at least three times higher than Castiel - Castiel desperately tried to stand up, wobbling to his feet. The man ignored him, eyes and ears on a distant sound that Castiel was unable to hear.  
Castiel wished for a weapon, or the ability to attack another man with his bare hands without ending up badly hurt or killed. This man was clearly adept enough to kill Castiel with a single blow.  
Pawsteps.  
Both the hunter and Castiel stopped breathing, the man snarling a cruel smile, teeth glinting in the sliver of moonlight.  
“Dean... no,” Castiel breathed, knowing if he was too loud, Dean would come forward, looking for him, leading him right to the hunter.  
There was a terrifying moment of silence, and a wolf stumbled into the clearing, sliding between two trees, fur bristled thickly. He growled, teeth as white as the hunter’s.  
“Mmm,” the hunter said, purring like a cat.  
Castiel’s spine tingled with electricity; Dean had to leave. Right now. _Get out, get out! Run!_  
The wolf paid no heed, stepping carefully towards the men. A trap snapped shut on its foot.  
“NO!” Castiel screamed, lunging for the wolf. His hands found the top of its head as it wailed, its cry pained and broken. “ _Dean!_ ”  
The hunter cackled, stepping forward. In a swift, unthinking move, Castiel stood and knocked his shoulder into the man’s chin. The hunter grunted and stepped back with a clack of his teeth, sighing as he straightened up. Castiel grabbed for him again, trying for his neck. He found human teeth, sharp and forceful, dragged over his hand. Castiel shoved him instead, disheartened by the cheerful laugh he got in return.  
“You can’t hurt me, you’re just a _man_.”  
Castiel saw the glint of another trap on the ground a few steps ahead. He shoved the hunter again, gritting his teeth as the hunter gave only manic glee in reply.  
The wolf howled behind Castiel, long and guttural. As haunting as a swan song.  
A voice sounded from beyond the clearing - “Cas!” It was Sam, he’d caught up.  
The hunter only laughed. For the last time.  
Castiel kneed him in the groin and shoved him, forcing him to the ground with incredible fury. The open trap clicked and bit around his head, clasping his skull in its death grip. The man shuddered, spasming, drawing in a long, stuttering gasp. Then he lay still, as dead as the wolf pelts that covered him.  
Castiel slumped his shoulders, rushing to the side of the wolf, running his hands gently over its head, fingers spreading through the wet fur.  
“Oh my God,” Sam whispered, kneeling beside him, hand on the body of the shivering wolf, still feeling its breath. “Oh God, no.”  
“It’s not him,” Castiel whispered, every syllable broken with relief. “It’s not him, Sam. It’s not Dean.”  
Sam sobbed with vehemence, burying his face in the wolf’s fur. Castiel felt her life hanging by a thread, but pained and agonising through every second. Castiel took her face in his hands, fingers spreading over her jaw, soothing her.  
“Be calm.” The wolf relaxed under Sam’s hands, shivering constantly as Castiel spoke. “I apologise for this, but you will feel better afterwards.” Sam lifted his head to see what Castiel was doing.  
Castiel spared Sam a glance, then returned his eyes to the wolf, shushing her. Then the hands around her face turned, fast as anything, and Sam heard the sickening crack as her neck snapped. Her body sank under Sam’s touch, and he felt the life go out of her in a heartbeat. Castiel set her head down gently.  
Sam was struck with horror, trying his very best to stop replaying the sound of the snap over and over in his mind.  
“I am sorry, Sam. But she was in pain.”  
Sam understood, but even then he was hard-pressed to stop a quiver shaking his bottom lip. “Where’s Dean?” he asked, voice hushed.  
His question was answered a moment later as a second wolf strolled into the clearing, guard down. He trotted to the dead body of the hunter, snorting in his face. Sam and Castiel could both make out the edge of his shape in the moonlight, slowing as he got closer to them. Castiel swivelled in his crouch, holding out a hand to Dean in greeting.  
Dean came forward to press his nose into Castiel’s palm, eyes closed. Sam’s arm twitched, wanting to pet him.  
“Give me your hand,” Castiel breathed, and Sam set his hand in Castiel’s other, letting Castiel stretch it out to Dean and allowing him to sniff it.  
Dean growled, but Castiel put a soothing hand on his wide head, scrunching his fur in a gentle hold. “You can trust him, Dean.”  
Dean snuffled and took a final step forward, paws dragging. Sam put his hand, outstretched, on Dean’s forehead. He could feel the shape of his skull, the way his hand fit snugly between Dean’s wide-set ears, so soft and warm. Sam dragged his fingers over them, feeling how they were held erect, listening to him as he breathed in awe.  
Nobody touched wolves, not living ones. Not like this.  
Dean grumbled and nudged his nose into Sam’s arm, like a friendly dog. Sam’s face broke into a grin, shuffling forward to sit eye-to-eye with his friend. Dean blinked at him and sat down on his haunches.  
Castiel’s hand joined Sam’s, and they held Dean’s head between each of their palms like he was a connecting force between them. Dean licked his jowls, tongue coming up to wipe over his nose. Sam sighed and buried his face in Dean’s side. He smelled like a damp, dirty dog, yes, but... there was something recognisable about him. He smelt like Dean.  
Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “We should go, Sam,” he said, lips still in Dean’s fur.  
Sam nodded, pulling away from the wolf. Castiel stood up slowly, then bent to unhitch the trap from the dead wolf’s leg. Dean whined as he saw her clearly, tugging out of Sam’s soft grip and going to nuzzle her. Sam rested his open hand on Dean’s back once, watching as Castiel threw the trap into the darkness with an angry grunt.  
Sam followed as Castiel turned to leave, both of them glancing back as Dean lay down beside the dead wolf, sniffing her still. Hand on his arm, Castiel guided Sam to the edge of the clearing, heading back the way they came.  
“What about the hunter?” Sam asked, glancing to the dead man who was sprawled, barely visible, in the centre of the circle of trees. The trap was still wrapped around his skull.  
Castiel seemed to bristle. “Leave him,” he said, coldly.  
Sam nodded and they left together.  
~  
Chevy led them out of the dark, Castiel on her back, slipping back and forth as she rocked with her steps. Sam walked beside them, hand on Castiel’s knee. They were both on edge, but strangely free of worry now; the danger had passed. The events of the past half-hour were repeating in Sam’s head, the darkness of the night and the smell of damp leaves imprinting on his memories, along with the smell of blood. The feel of wolf fur beneath his hand, the warmth of a dead body under him. The crack of a breaking neck.  
“Are you still hungry?” he asked Castiel as they passed the tavern. It seemed like a stupid question, because Sam’s own appetite could not have been any more diminished.  
“While I don’t wish to eat...” Castiel slipped off the horse, feet splashing on the puddled ground, “I think I might lose consciousness if I don’t find nourishment soon.”  
Sam nodded, instructing Castiel to wait with the horse. He hurried inside the tavern, eye on Castiel’s dripping, slumped form as he walked away. He would only be a minute.  
The people in the tavern were eerily cheerful, unaware of the events that had taken place so close by. They drank, rejoiced and laughed with their friends, but Sam couldn’t help but feel completely unaffected. He heard himself ordering some food, but he was too zoned out to notice what he’d asked for. Time passed strangely as he waited, dragging like he was falling asleep, but it was over in a heartbeat. He stared down at the wrapped package he held in his hands, clueless as to how it got there. He blinked himself out of his reverie briefly, before handing coins to the confused-looking bartender. He turned to the door, and the man called after him, something about him overpaying, but Sam was too distracted to care.  
It was all a little too much, really. A week ago he had been a happy thief, taking what he needed and never any more. Now he was lost among strangers, friends, monsters. His old life was never coming back, tonight’s madness was proof enough of that.  
The thin cloth in his hands became flecked with tiny splashes as he stepped back into the rain, heading for the waiting man and the horse. Castiel’s eyes were shining as blue as the whole world looked right now - brighter, even.  
Together they went back into the stable, the pitch torch still burning. It was as if they’d never left.  
Castiel patted Chevy and let her get back to resting, slumping his back against the mounting block as he fell to the ground and sat, knees bent. He ran a hand through his hair, mouth open in a sigh, eyes closed.  
“Here,” Sam said, kneeling beside him and opening the parcel, handing Castiel a turkey leg. “Eat, you’ll feel better.”  
Castiel ate, holding the food away from him, tearing it uncomfortably with his teeth in a manner that suggested he didn’t enjoy the taste. “I need this to be over,” he said, solemnly. “Dean and I cannot survive like this forever.”  
“I know,” Sam said, eyes down. He took his own leg of turkey and forced himself to swallow. While knowing it was delicious, he only registered the bland taste of dead meat, the long grains of its texture, the oil in its skin. He was eating something that had been alive once, killed for the purpose of his consumption. It felt wrong, to be eating something that breathed, had thoughts, had feelings.  
Even as a wolf, Dean felt grief for the other wolf. The creatures were not mindless, they knew how they felt. They understood what death meant. Sam had never known his parents, and had never known that loss. But Sam felt more loss for the wolf’s discontinued presence than he did for the man who had killed her. She never meant harm, she was an innocent creature - but the hunter meant all the harm in the world. Sam was finding his sense of humanity slightly skewed, and wondered if it were wrong to feel that way.  
“There is nothing wrong with hating that which means ill,” Castiel said, and Sam was unsure if he was reading his clearer thoughts, or was simply thinking the same thing. “If I could’ve saved the other wolf, I would have.”  
“You don’t have any power left,” Sam said, repeating the information the Guardswoman named Ruby had given him. “You’re human?”  
Castiel swallowed the last of his turkey and hurled the bone out into the street. “I still have power. I am the only fallen angel who still does.”  
“How come?”  
Castiel wiped his hands on his trousers and then cupped his face in his palms. “The Priestess kept me from using my power for so long, I didn’t use it as quickly as the others. It was a limited resource, and none of us knew it.”  
“But you don’t use it?”  
“I must conserve it; my mortality will be in jeopardy without it.”  
Sam hung his head, setting his stripped bone beside him. “But if you become mortal... you can be with Dean. Because otherwise he’ll die, and you’ll outlive him.”  
Castiel dropped his hands to his lap, wrapping them around his elbows. He paused for a while before speaking. “I cannot become mortal.”  
“Why?”  
“My vessel was a dead man, unlike the other fallen angels. I don’t know what would happen if I were to run out of power, but... I could return to his state. Dead. In the case that that is not true, I could remain... immortal.”  
Sam’s eyebrows arched, realising something terrible. “You’re going to live without Dean, forever, if he never comes back.”  
Castiel shook his head. “If he ever dies, I will use my power all at once, or find some way to remove what is left...” he took a breath, “I would die.”  
“You’d kill yourself?”  
Castiel face crumpled with intense emotion. “I cannot live, knowing of the grief he feels for his family, feeling that for him. If I felt that for him, if he were gone... I - I would never be able to survive.”  
Sam put a hand on Castiel’s bent knee, rubbing a thumb over it. “When we break the curse... you’re gonna be together. We’ll find a way to make you live. You still age, right?”  
Castiel nodded. “I live in Jimmy’s body, fully my own. I essentially continue his life, but he’s only a shell. I am the person in this body now.”  
“Then... maybe you and Dean could grow old together, and if - _when_ he dies...”  
“Sam, I cannot talk about this any more. Please.” His voice was ripped with the onset of grief, the mere thought of losing Dean at all carving a hole in his heart.  
Sam nodded, apologising with a quick glance to Castiel. “Do you want to...” he turned his question into a statement, hoping to give Castiel no choice in the matter, aiming to change the subject. “Tell me more of the story. From when Dean left you alone in his room and went to confession.”  
“That was where he went?” Castiel sounded surprised.  
Sam gave a small grin. “He told Bobby he was gonna go back and screw you again.”  
Castiel’s disconcerted face became a mask of amusement, pleased to recollect moments past. “That he did.”  
Sam leant back on the mounting block, waiting for Castiel to tell him more.  
~x~  
Castiel had had a feeling Dean was coming back. That didn’t stop the tingle of excitement and relief he felt when Dean opened the door to his room again, stepping inside. Dean's eyes followed the door as he closed it, then he turned, and his gaze landed upon Castiel, sprawled naked on the bed.  
“You started without me,” Dean observed. Castiel lay with his legs splayed on the mattress, blankets kicked over the end of the bed, pillows shoved to one side. His cock was full and hard in his hand, and he smiled at Dean as he approached.  
“I was hoping you would come back. I didn’t want this to go to waste.”  
Dean hummed a charmed sound, unbuckling his sword from his belt.  
Castiel reached a hand over to still him before he went any further. “Leave your clothes on.” He paused. “Boots too.”  
Dean met his eye, eyelids flickering in thought before he smiled, going forward and kneeling on the bed, dipping it to one side as he swung his leg over so he was straddling Castiel’s hips. Dean pursed his lips, giving Castiel a full view as he unbuttoned his trousers, shirt flapping as he moved his hands to pull them down, only to his hip, just enough room for his hardening cock to press outward.  
He leaned down, arching over Castiel, ready to kiss him. Castiel put a hand between their lips, the kiss instead falling on his fingertips. “Kiss me later. Just... touch. First.”  
Dean smirked against his hand, pulling back up and undoing his breeches, freeing his erection. He stroked it, visibly stiffening in his own hand. Castiel’s eyes flicked between Dean’s hand and his face, watching Dean’s pupils grow ever more dilated.  
Dean stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers, riding them low on his hips, the skin of his bare ass brushing Castiel’s upper thighs behind him. Dean looked down between their legs, where nothing touching properly yet. He paused for a moment, then raised each of his knees in turn and put them between Castiel’s spread legs, thighs pressing into Castiel’s.  
Dean’s trousers stayed clinging to his legs as he lowered himself onto Castiel, taking Castiel’s member in hand and guiding it between his own legs, in the gap between his thighs. Castiel felt his cock dragged against the crotch of Dean’s trousers, which was still so close to his body. He let out a tiny noise at the sensation, which Dean grunted a sigh in reply to.  
Still moaning gently, Dean rocked into Castiel’s cock, causing it to shudder fully through between his legs. He was so hot there, Castiel felt the heat carry through him like molten lava in his bloodstream.  
Castiel glanced down, unable to stop a tiny buck of his hips. Dean levered himself onto him over and over, like push-ups, but with his forearms and knees flat on the bed.  
Castiel bit his bottom lip, eyes rolling gently to the side as he let himself memorise the pleasure he felt. Dean’s thighs were tight around him, and he felt himself thick and throbbing between the muscles on all sides - the tiny pull of fabric as Dean rocked sent a quick shiver up Castiel’s lower back. Dean groaned and tipped his head up, arching towards the hanging sheet above, eyes closed. Castiel saw his throat bared to him, saw the bristles of unshaven facial hair extending down Dean’s neck to his Adam’s apple.  
Castiel placed a gentle hand on the nape of Dean’s neck and brought his throat down to him, open mouth closing over it wetly, lips soft and supple. Dean rumbled, and Castiel felt the vibration on his tongue. Dean bucked slowly, letting himself be fucked against. Castiel liked that word. _Fuck_.  
Castiel raked his loose hand over Dean’s hair, bringing their eyes level. His own lids were half-hooded like Dean’s, and he murmured, throat thick with lust.  
Dean moaned against him, lips finding his, finally, rolling his tongue into him along with his hips’ movements. Dean broke the kiss with a slow drag of his lips across Castiel’s, mouths both sensitive and hot.  
“Talk to me, Cas.”  
Castiel blinked, eyelashes tickling over Dean’s cheek. “What would you like me to say?”  
Dean groaned, hand finding Castiel’s and dragging it to the place behind his buttocks, each of their fingertips feeling Castiel’s cockhead as it pushed between Dean’s legs, poking out only to the tip as Dean made the downward roll of his hips. “Tell me what you feel.”  
Castiel sighed, lips parting as he licked them. He pressed one half of his mouth delicately to the place right beside Dean’s ear, hand still curled on the back of his neck.  
“I can feel myself on your skin... you’re hot and slippery, and - _uhh_ \- I can feel all of myself. You make me feel like I’m―” he gasped, “igniting. Melting from the inside out. And I am very, very... _mhh_ , very aroused.”  
Castiel tipped his head into the pillow as Dean’s cock leaked liquid over his stomach, rubbing it into him as he rocked. “Tell me what you feel, Dean.” He pressed a long kiss to Dean’s mouth, tongue exploring the wetness of his inner cheeks, tasting sweet saliva. “Tell me what I make you feel.” He ended his words with a quiet groan, open mouth on Dean’s cheek again, teeth dragging lightly over his skin. Dean’s face was so hot, he felt it through his teeth.  
Dean pressed gentle teeth of his own on Castiel’s jaw, tongue flicking out and running along his stubble; so hot, so wet. “I wish you could be closer,” Dean managed, voice gruff and breathy. He grunted, lurching another heavy movement on top of Castiel, fingers still playing at Cas’ cockhead, smearing pre-come over Dean’s own thighs. “I want that fucking heat all around me, God... God. You’re―” his hips stuttered, then picked up rhythm again, slower this time, but deeper, pressing Castiel’s weight into the bed by his hips. “I love this. Fuck. I love that goddamn tingle I get when I see you.”  
Castiel breathed a laugh. “You tingle when you see me?”  
“It’s like I’m gonna pop a boner every damn time. Nobody ever made me that hot, not all the time.”  
“H-how long have you felt... this - way?” Castiel inquired, trying to remain calm but finding it difficult with the sheer magnitude of the pleasure that surged through him.  
Dean mumbled into Castiel’s neck, kissing him gently. “I got no idea. _Unh_ \- kind of... kind of started when you got naked the first time. And you didn’t care, and you wanted - oh God, _yes_ , right there...” he licked his lips, closing his eyes as he keened, wetness still slipping out between their bodies. Dean’s shirt rubbed at Castiel’s chest, the hem of it dragging in Dean’s smeared pre-come. “W-when you wanted to touch me.”  
Castiel bucked up, enjoying the grunt Dean gave, eyelids flickering in surprise, then falling back into their rhythm. “I find you very sexually appealing.”  
Dean laughed out loud, a chuckle that shook them both. “I got that, yeah. Me too, Cas.”  
“You don’t like men.”  
Dean pressed down very hard, legs squeezing together impossibly tight, the pressure on Castiel’s cock almost _unbearably_ good.  
“I like _you_ ,” Dean said, sounding very calm.  
Without warning, Castiel released pulse upon pulse of come, riding over Dean’s ass and sliding between his legs. Castiel’s hands clung to Dean's clothed arms, dragging at the linen as Castiel opened his eyes wide, light spilling in from all sides.  
He couldn’t scream the pleasure he felt as his throat had spasmed shut. He gasped airlessly, his head pushing violently into the pillow behind him. Dean sighed a long moan, finding his own release as Castiel gradually regained control, his legs wrapped tight around Dean’s thighs. Castiel’s feet climbed as high as Dean’s lower back, heels slipping between his buttocks, smearing the semen there as Dean pulled himself off Castiel’s dick, strings of come trailing between their touch.  
Castiel was able to breathe once more, surrendering heaving sighs that rushed out through his gaping mouth, as he stared at the dark sheet hanging above. Dean grinned, letting Castiel settle before lying back on top of him, trousers still around his hips.  
Castiel laughed, inexplicably, a crazy flush of joy bursting through him as he looked Dean in the eye. Dean smirked with an open mouth, still panting.  
“I want to have - sex with you - all the time,” Castiel told him, voice almost lost to his constant panting.  
“If only that were possible,” Dean sighed, resting his forehead to Castiel’s. “I’d be fucked out in no time, I swear.”  
Castiel breathed a single note over Dean’s lips, still smiling. “Seeing the whole world... is little comparison, to the happiness I get from being with you,” Castiel said, tone lowered. He meant every word. “You make me very happy.”  
Dean kissed him, eyes closed as he pressed his lips down, rocking their chins together. “If you’re always the first to say it, I’ll never sound sincere if I agree,” he muttered, eyes flicking from Castiel’s lips to his eyes, foreheads still pushed together.  
“Then you say something. Be the first to say it,” Castiel suggested.  
Dean swallowed, pulling his face away an inch or so. He hesitated. “What is there to say, exactly?”  
Castiel smiled. He wasn’t expecting Dean to say it, even though he knew he felt it. He brushed Dean’s hair just above his ear, nodding up to kiss him once, gently.  
“When you find something to say, you can say it.”  
Dean frowned. After a moment, he swallowed and his lips parted. Castiel knew it was right on the tip of his tongue, knew how much Dean wanted to say it, but he didn’t, and Castiel wasn’t upset by that.  
Castiel shook his head gently and kissed him once more, then thoroughly distracted Dean by slipping a finger between Dean’s thighs, sliding through Castiel’s own still-wet semen. Dean whimpered through his open mouth, eyes falling shut.  
Castiel withdrew his hand, the other, clean one, taking Dean by the shoulder and rolling him over so Castiel was straddling him. Dean huffed as he lay flat on his back, eyes on the wet hand Castiel raised to his own mouth. Castiel placed his fingertip between his lips, surrounding it and then withdrawing it, slowly. Eyes on Dean.  
Dean swallowed hard, eyes dark. “T-that’s disgusting.”  
Castiel smirked playfully. There was still a line of white liquid running slowly down his finger. He glanced at it, then at Dean’s lips. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but instead found himself closing his mouth around Castiel’s hand, of his own accord. Castiel hadn’t even moved.  
Dean licked his lips clean with a flick of his pink tongue. “That’s really weird-tasting... kinda potent, and stuff.” Castiel inclined his head. Dean paused, then added, voice husky, “If I hadn’t just come, I would’a when you licked your hand.” His throat drew up as he gulped. “That was really hot, Cas.”  
Castiel smiled, noting that for later. For whatever purpose.  
Dean glanced to Castiel’s lips, hands sliding down his bare arms to rest on Castiel’s elbows. Castiel still felt the fabric of Dean’s clothes against his skin, the heat of Dean through them.  
“Cas?”  
“Hm?”  
“Can I... taste my own?”  
Castiel felt a thrill course between his legs, cock twitching feebly, too soon to get excited again. But he knew Dean felt it, because Dean’s lips quirked in a bashful grin.  
Castiel leant his forehead on Dean’s again as he tipped his head down, looking between them and dragging his hand down from his own neck, over his collarbone, over a nipple, then down his stomach.  
His fingers slipped in drying pre-come, then found the sloppy splash of Dean’s semen over his abdomen. Dean huffed against Castiel’s lips as he swiped a finger through it, eyes meeting again as he brought his hand up to Dean’s mouth, dragging over his lips, then sliding inside as Dean’s lips parted. Dean’s green irises slimmed as his eyes grew darker with arousal, tongue lapping at Castiel’s finger intently.  
Dean suddenly screwed up his face, turning his mouth away from Castiel’s hand and grunting discontent through his open mouth. “Ughh, not good, gross-gross-gross.”  
Castiel looked at his wet hand then back to Dean as he licked his own open palm, trying to clear the taste off his tongue. “Was yours not pleasant?”  
Dean shook his head, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Yours was like, fallen angel jizz or something. Mine’s just... ew. It’s friggin’ gross, Jesus.”  
Castiel was curious - he swiped a second finger through the white on his stomach, about to put it in his mouth, when Dean stopped him, holding his hand. “Don’t do it, seriously.”  
Castiel defiantly placed his finger in his mouth and sucked it. Dean winced. Castiel lowered his eyelids, breathing out. “It’s not so bad.”  
“Dude - what?”  
“It tastes very salty. Cupid brought me a foreign cheese that tasted similar...”  
Dean pushed a hand to his face, despairing. “No, no, no.”  
Castiel chuckled and put an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s lips, letting Dean roll into him, knowing he wanted to taste it from Castiel’s perspective. Their tongues licked each other, Dean’s running over Castiel’s teeth, swallowing.  
He pulled away first, nosing Castiel in the cheek. “You just taste really good.”  
Castiel sighed against him, nudging his hips gently against Dean’s still-exposed genitals. “We should get cleaned up,” he said, regretfully. “You have Guard training to teach.”  
Dean’s face fell. “I... don’t―”  
Castiel nodded, not needing Dean to tell him he no longer felt the passion for the Guard as he once did. “It is your duty, Dean. There is no running away from it, it’s your life.”  
Dean scowled. Castiel nuzzled him, then sat on his heels, still kneeling over Dean, and looked for something to clean them up. Dean sat up too, cupping Castiel’s ass with his hands, sliding his palms up Castiel’s lower back and holding him steady.  
“We could leave it on us,” Dean said, a sly tilt of his head at the suggestion.  
“The semen?”  
“Nobody can see it, right? We’re the only people that have to know it’s there. And we can feel it on us and remember.”  
Castiel kissed him, biting his lip. “Remember our sins?”  
Dean pulled him close, shirt dragging through the mess on Castiel’s abdomen. “Filthy little secrets.”  
“You are a very dirty-minded man, Dean,” Castiel breathed, wordlessly agreeing. He liked the idea that, all day, Dean’s mess would be dried on his skin, he’d be able to feel it pulling as he turned, only him and Dean aware of the things they did together.  
Dean slapped Castiel’s rear gently, then shoved him off the bed, standing up and pulling his trousers back on. He made a slightly sideways grin, catching Castiel’s eye. “It’s still wet.”  
Castiel licked his lips, smiling as he located his discarded clothes, the ones Gabriel had made for him last night. They were crumpled from lying discarded all night, but he pulled them on, feeling the wet drag of viscous stickiness under the front of his shirt.  
They spent a good few minutes making themselves presentable, Dean having more trouble with this than Castiel, as his only clean black shirt had smears of white through the hem. He washed it with water, but was slightly concerned that it looked like he’d had some kind of washroom mishap. Castiel laughed and told him he would be fine.  
Dean kissed him, long, slow, and lingering. “Have a good day, honey,” he said.  
Castiel frowned. “Honey?”  
Dean grinned. “Kidding. People say that to their wives and husbands and stuff.”  
Castiel’s frown deepened. “Are we married now?”  
Dean gaped, then half-keeled over in a laugh. “No, nope!” He straightened up, beaming heartily. “I can’t marry you, you’re a dude. Besides, it’s weird, calling you ‘honey’. It’s kinda dumb, I guess.”  
Castiel tilted his head. “Honey.” He tried it, and then decided he didn’t like it either. “No, I see your point. You are more of a wood-smoked meat, not a honey.”  
Dean grinned again, eyes shining. “You’re cherry pie, Cas.” He kissed him again, then backed away, looking extremely elated. He shrugged, and flicked Castiel a wave before heading to the door. “Stick around if you want, but I’m sure you got better things to do.”  
“I have nothing planned.”  
Dean met his eye for a second, then left.  
Castiel drew in a very deep breath, and let it all out in one. His mind and body were overwhelmed. This whole thing with Dean was a lot to take in.  
~  
In a matter of hours, Castiel found himself wandering aimlessly between the garret and the library, stopping at the infirmary, never once showing his face to anyone he knew. Given that almost all of them were mind-readers, he found he didn’t particularly want to share anything. It was his and Dean’s thing, it was their secret.  
Of course, he appreciated all that his friends had done for him, but he wanted some solitude. Being alone was something he was used to and enjoyed, and even though he loved being around Dean, he used the time apart to collect his thoughts.  
He dare not travel outside his building; the Priestess was most likely looking for him, and was undoubtedly furious. Whenever the inevitable confrontation occurred, he would rather it not be in some place he was not allowed to be. Castiel worried, but tried his hardest to push the thoughts from his mind.  
 _Think of Dean. Think of Limn’mere. Think of that rush of colour that runs through you when Dean makes you come._  
It was early afternoon before he made his way to the library and actually opened the door, glancing around to see if Death was there. He was not on this side of the room, so Castiel crossed to the window, not wanting to check if he was at his desk.  
After the rain of yesterday, the sun shone brightly over the city; the white rooftops sparkled cleanly, making Castiel’s eyes strain a little.  
He swung the window open on its catch, legs up and feet pressed to the side. The cheery calls of mock battles called up from below, the kind of sound that only carried in the summertime.  
Gordon was there, standing at Dean’s side, helping him instruct the others. Gabriel stood a few feet behind, manipulating Dean’s shadow into shapes of animals, occasionally a rude hand gesture, a hand the size of an entire person stretching out over the sand.  
Castiel chuckled, recognising the shape of a peacock’s tail, fanned out like a real tail behind the Captain. Dean had no clue this was happening and was therefore confused as to why his audience was smiling at him.  
He waved a hand dismissively, some of the younger Guardsmen laughing jovially and going off to practise with their crossbows. Balthazar stayed behind, shouldering his crossbow in an overly exaggerated manner, swinging his hip out to one side. Gabriel turned his armour pink.  
Castiel barked out a sharp laugh, foot slipping from one side of the window and swingingly freely, and he let it keep swinging as their faces turned to look at him, hearing his laughter.  
Gabriel waved a hand, Balthazar shot a look at Castiel before bearing down on Gabriel with murder in his eyes, demanding recompense for his leather armour, which he seemed unwilling to fix by himself.  
Gabriel hid behind Dean, and even as Castiel watched, Balthazar couldn’t find him; Gabriel had vanished from view completely.  
Castiel chuckled and kept his eyes on Anna for a moment, seeing her jump suddenly, shooting a crossbow arrow in completely the wrong direction. It hit nothing; it turned into a bird and, startled, flew into the sky.  
Gabriel appeared again, blowing air into Anna’s ear. She hit him with her crossbow over the shoulder, and began to chase him. Dean slumped his shoulders dramatically, knees bending as he made his way across the courtyard to separate them.  
He shouted at them, wiggling his hands in the air; they laughed and joked, but calmed down and got back to what they were meant to be doing. Dean was laughing too, he seemed to be in a very good mood.  
Gabriel vanished again as soon as Dean’s back was turned, but didn’t reappear. Castiel assumed he was somewhere around, doing something nasty to someone without their knowledge.  
Castiel’s smile softened as Dean walked back toward where Gordon stood, his head turned away from Raphael and the other more unpleasant Guardsmen. He seemed content enough. The minutes went by, and Castiel only watched Dean, who kept his head down, mostly, sometimes glancing up to see whatever his troupe was doing. He was thinking, and was deeply sunk into it.  
Gordon sidled up to him and tapped him on the hip, saying something - Dean looked at him and flashed a quick smile, eyes back to the ground. Gordon spoke again, gesturing in a friendly manner. Dean rubbed the back of his neck.  
He seemed unsettled now, much like Gordon had asked something Dean didn’t want to tell him. Castiel’s mind flashed straight to his and Dean’s exploits last night. He touched his shirt gently, feeling the crisp smear of dried semen under his clothes. He felt itchy and dirty, but he liked it.  
Dean had his own stains between his legs, it was probably stuck through his hair, tugging noticeably whenever he turned or walked. Castiel shouldn’t have been quite so excited by that prospect, and yet he was.  
Castiel knew Dean was talking about him then, because he glanced up to Castiel’s window, knowing it was where he always sat. He started when he saw Castiel sitting there, still wearing the clothes Gabriel made. Castiel knew how much better he looked in these than he did in white, so, with his leg hanging casually from the window frame, position relaxed and happy, he thought he probably looked very attractive right now. Especially to Dean.  
Dean raised a hand to his face to scratch his cheek, but subtly turned it into a wave to Castiel, trying not to attract Gordon’s attention. Castiel nodded his reply.  
Dean brushed Gordon off, waving him back with a stubborn hand. Gordon withdrew, shaking his head. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. He did not want Gordon to know about his and Dean’s relationship - or whatever it was that they had between the two of them. The only people Castiel was happy to share with were people he trusted, and Dean trusted as well. Gordon was not one of these people, and perhaps Dean knew that.  
They held eye contact between them for a while, even the haze of dust in the air between them not able to tear their eyes apart. It only stopped when Gabriel poked Castiel in the foot.  
“Hey there, lover.”  
Castiel looked to find Gabriel standing in the library, dark golden hair mussed and pushed back over his head. Dean saw his face behind Castiel’s and shouted “Hey!” up to them, but Gabriel waved him off, and Dean went back to practice.  
“Was there something you required, Gabriel?”  
Gabriel lowered his head, the cheer of earlier gone. “The Priestess is looking for you. And I mean, seriously looking. This is the first time you haven’t been in your room overnight.”  
“The first time that she knows of, you mean.”  
Gabriel only blinked. “She’s pissed, Cas. She said she wants to meet you in your room, in like, ten minutes from now, under pain of death or something. I don’t think there’s actually much I can do.”  
Castiel shook his head, eyes on Gabriel’s solemn expression. “My predicament is my own fault. I used my power, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, and I misplaced my ring. I have done a great deal of things she doesn’t know about, but... those are the ones she is angry for. Her reaction to this is going to be very small in comparison to what would happen if she knew I’d...”  
Gabriel frowned, not knowing why Castiel had stopped. “What, Cas?”  
“Gabriel?”  
“Yes?”  
“Tell me what Dean’s nickname is for you.”  
Gabriel’s frown deepened. “Uh, Gabe?”  
Castiel tore his eyes from Gabriel’s, glimpsing at the library behind him. “No, that was too easy. Tell me... tell me what Dean and I did last night.”  
Gabriel’s face broke into a sideways grin, one side climbing halfway up his face. “Well, I can’t be sure on the details, but as far as I can tell, you had a hell of a good time. Dean’s in the best mood I’ve seen him in in years.”  
“Tell me specifically what it was that we did.” Castiel had to be thorough. It was too vague otherwise, too easy to misjudge.  
“Dude, what’s with the interrogation? I do something wrong?”  
“Answer the question, Gabriel.”  
“Well, I assume you―” Gabriel broke off and glanced around, checking for anyone that might overhear, “screwed the crap outta each other, am I right or am I right?”  
Castiel let out a breath of relief, nodding acceptance. “Forgive me, brother, I had to be sure you were really Gabriel.”  
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”  
Castiel swung his legs over the windowsill, inside the library with his feet on the wooden block below the window. “Because I was about to give away sensitive information, something you already knew but... the Priestess doesn’t know how often I leave the castle with Dean. She would be inconsolable, and would take her fury out on me.”  
“Nope, I don’t get it. What did I do that warranted a full-scale security check?”  
“You may have been the Priestess in disguise, here to pry information out of me. You said it yourself, she is looking for me, and is angry.”  
Gabriel rest a hand on Castiel’s arm, shaking his head, “You’re getting paranoid, bro.”  
Castiel said nothing, only looked at his knees. Gabriel did not know the full extent of her treatment towards him. The bloody knock to the side of his head the other day was the lower end of the scale.  
“I need to find her,” Castiel said. “Get this over and done with. The longer I wait, the angrier she will get.”  
“Couldn’t you... just not turn up? Like, ever?”  
“Run away?”  
“Yeah. I mean, what’s stopping you? You’re not tied here like Death is, you’re free to leave the city, so long as she doesn’t find out that’s what you’re doing. Just pack a bag and get the hell out of dodge.”  
Castiel had often considered it. “Until I met Dean, I thought the only kind of love was what the Priestess showed me.” He looked up at Gabriel. “I didn’t know there was another way a person could be treated, and I thought I loved her. I thought she loved me.  
“The feelings I had, of wanting to run away... I thought it was irrational, and stupid, and loveless on my part, to want to leave her.” Castiel closed his eyes, and sighed, enjoying the sun on his back. “Now I know Dean, and... I can’t leave without him.”  
Gabriel bumped his lip. “Looks like you got two ends of the scale now. But you... when you met Anna and me, and Balthazar, you didn’t notice how nice we were? Come on, we’re freakin’ fluffy bunnies compared to that bitchy cat temper of hers.”  
Castiel slipped off the sill and stood up, walking slowly for the library door. “I admit, I was... emotionally stunted. I didn’t recognise kindness for a long while. I knew knowledge, and power, and lack thereof. Death showed me people, how they work. He made me interested in the world around me. You and Anael and Balthazar... you were merely curiosities for a long while. When I found myself hoping for your company each day... I thought there was something wrong with me. I shouldn’t need anyone but the Priestess.”  
“Jeez, Cas, that bitch really ruined you, huh.” Gabriel opened the library door for Castiel, letting him lead the way to his room.  
“I still have no explanation as to why she keeps me from using my power.”  
“I have this theory, actually,” Gabriel said, hands in his pockets as they walked. “You read about all us other angels in the Bible, right? Gabriel, messenger of God, at your service. You get all the other guys in lore and crap, but you hear about us, right?”  
Castiel nodded unsurely. “Yes?”  
“But you never hear about an angel called Castiel. Untarnished by stories or tales, or myths that got messed up in there. There are no lies in your angel-ness.”  
“Angel-ness?”  
Gabriel shrugged. “Like your mojo, but the idea of you, rather than your actual magic.”  
“My Grace.”  
“Sure.”  
“I don’t quite see what you’re suggesting,” Castiel told him, taking the next staircase with Gabriel at his side.  
“Maybe she wants your Grace thingy because it’s less messed up than the rest of us.”  
“I have a purer Grace?”  
“She goes for all things pure and holy and clean, doesn’t she? Why not a shiny spanking new angel Grace?”  
Castiel turned the thoughts over in his mind. “So by not using my mojo, I conserve my pure Grace?”  
“Or stop it powering down or something, yeah.”  
“Does that mean that by using your own mojo, you are... tarnishing your Grace further?”  
Gabriel snorted. “Pff, hell if I know what it means. Just a theory.”  
“It’s one of the more convincing ones I’ve heard,” Castiel said kindly. “So―” he began again, coming up with new ideas all of a sudden, “do you think that’s the reason my vessel was a dead man? That she chose a dead Jimmy over a dying man like yourself?”  
“Because you’ve got special angel-ness? Probably.” Gabriel agreed, shrugging. They made the last turning before Castiel’s room. “Hey, she’ll probably be by in a few minutes. Want me to wait?”  
Castiel took a shaky breath in, eyes falling shut. “I don’t want to be alone through this.”  
“I can protect you, okay? I won’t let her hurt you.”  
“No. Please, stay out here. You can’t use your power against her, it doesn’t work. She is more powerful than any of you.”  
Gabriel stared at him, face indicating he was thinking hard. “You don’t think...?”  
“What don’t I think?”  
“That she’s maybe using your power somehow? That you’re the one with special mojo, and she won’t let you use it because she wants it?”  
Castiel realised this was true, it had to be. Even Dean had suggested something similar. The Priestess was human, and she was not a witch; the power was not her own, and Castiel had always known that. But the source of her power remained a mystery. Until now. It all slotted into place.  
“How is she doing it? How has she taken that from me?”  
Gabriel chewed the back of his lip, thinking. “You know she’s got Death trapped - maybe _him_ ―”  
“Cas - ti - el.”  
Castiel’s spine ran down with line of ice, shock stealing over him. The Priestess was behind him, at the other end of the hallway, He spun around, mouth open and eyes wide. She held herself in the centre of the broad corridor, feet planted firm on the floor, shoulders squared. While graceful and elegant, Castiel couldn’t help but see her as a raging bull, swiping her feet for the charge.  
“Priestess Masters,” he breathed, not even sure she heard him.  
Gabriel squeezed Castiel’s arm at his back as the Priestess took a few steps forwards, her anger flaming behind her like an aura. “I’ll be out here, bro, shout if you need me.”  
“Your room. Now.” Meg hissed, slamming the door to the last corridor open so hard that it left a dent in the stone wall it hit.  
Castiel froze for a second before stepping forward, feet trembling. There was no escape. He could feel his dread lifting, replaced by something worse: a wish that the ceiling would fall and crush her, that something would catch fire and chase her away, that Gabriel would rush forwards and stab her in the gut.  
None of these things happened, and he was shunted into the final corridor with only the force of her swiping hand through the air. Castiel flinched, hard-wired to expect a slap on the face when her hands moved.  
“Shut the door,” she snapped, striding to the end of his room and glaring out of the window for maybe a second before turning around and pacing back, heels cutting deep into the floor. The bloodstain from the other day was gone; Cupid or Gabriel must have removed it. The burn marks on the floor by the fireplace were gone too, as was the tiny lump of flesh he had extracted from the horse that he had left beside the hearth.  
“I dare say that you owe me an explanation, Castiel,” the Priestess said, her voice cloyingly sweet. She sounded so pleasant when Castiel closed his eyes, but seeing her face now, he knew her jaw was clenched in the kind of anger that let him know serious hurt was on its way.  
“I... am very sorry.” He was not sorry at all. He had no regrets, aside from having to make this apology. He didn’t want his ring, he didn’t want to lose the life of a horse because he couldn’t use his power, and he would never feel bad for missing her wrath last night to spend the time making love to Dean instead. He was _not_ sorry.  
“You are a liar, Castiel.” That was true. Castiel nodded. He felt like fighting her. He wanted to own up to all the wrong things he had done, he wanted to tell her how many times he had broken her rules, the pleasures he had discovered without her.  
“Explain your clothes.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, at the blue shirt with the three buttons, the off-white creamy trousers that were a little too tight around his backside. Beautiful creations of Gabriel’s.  
“They were made for me by a friend.”  
She raised her eyebrows in high, shrewd arches. “A friend?”  
“Gabriel.”  
“You would count an angel as your friend?”  
“Fallen angel. And he is much better than you are; he is kind, and patient, and loyal. You are none of these things. You’re cruel,” he said, eyes burning into her, thrilled at how shocked her face was, “and heartless, and you are much like a bitchy cat.”  
The Priestess was speechless. Then she relaxed, expression turning amused and challenging. “Really?”  
“Yes.”  
“Tell me, Castiel: what kind of punishment would you recommend you receive, for wronging me in the ways that you have?”  
“I have done nothing wrong.”  
She harrumphed, stepping forwards. As Castiel flinched backwards, she saw his movement and paused, before stretching out her hand with a sly smile. “Show me your ring, Castiel.”  
“It’s in my other trousers.”  
Her smile hardened into a flat, stony line. Her nostrils flared. “Tell me why you used your power.”  
“I saved the life of a dying horse. I would show you the evidence, but it appears to have been cleaned away.” He praised himself; his tone and voice gave away nothing of the fear he felt. Only his constant flinching let slip where his heart lay in the matter.  
“Tell me why you were not here last night. While I waited for you. You already knew I was angry for the other discretions, tell me why you _dared_ to make me wait longer.”  
“I was―” _Making love to another man. Fucking Dean Winchester, Captain of the Guard of Zamreer. Spending the night with my lover. Away from you._  
“I’m waiting, Castiel.”  
“I refuse to tell you what I was doing.”  
The Priestess looked at him, double-taking. In all the years she had known him, his entire life on Earth, never once had he spoken like this to her. He was blazing with a thrilling energy, channelling Dean directly, he knew it. He had a fight in him that wasn’t there before, a fire that made him feel elated, no matter the consequence. Reckless.  
“Well then,” the Priestess said, calmly. “I find myself in the sticky position of having to describe my own punishment for you.”  
“I know how you love to do that, of course,” Castiel said. There was something bitter in his voice, something new. He liked it.  
“Indeed,” she replied. Gently, she placed an open palm on Castiel’s cheek, stroking with her thumb. Her eyes were on his lips, her head tilting as she considered him. Considered all the terrible things she could do to him.  
“Do it, I dare you,” he said, snarling at her with a tiny snark of his lips. Oh yes, Dean was a bad influence.  
She smiled, and then Castiel knew he’d done something awfully wrong. The dread came back, and his vision blackened around the edges, his own fear getting the better of him. She was going to hurt him. Really hurt him.  
Her fingernails became claws. Real, actual claws. She curled them into his face, an inch below his eye, and dragged them down his cheek. He whimpered, mouth pulled open by her stinging lines.  
Her other hand was clamped tight around his arm, grip like a vice, stronger than any human could manage. His hand was numbing, and he couldn’t pull away.  
“How’s that for bitchy cat, hm?”  
Castiel gasped, leaning forward, hand to his face, trying to hold the blood inside. It dribbled over his neck, warm and wet and salty, tangy in his mouth like metal.  
“Now, let’s see about these clothes, shall we?” she muttered, head tilting the other way. Her claws flicked the buttons off one by one, pinging them, lost, around the room. One flew so far it was swallowed in one of the white sheets that was draped across the wall.  
Blood soaked his shirt with heat, but he felt the warmth leaving his skin as the shirt was torn from him, ripping only by the force of it being yanked hard over his back, as if she was trying to pull it through him. He was too dizzy not to stumble backwards, half-lost to the feeling of blood escaping him.  
“Oh-ho, no you don’t,” she said, wrenching him up to his full height in front of her, ignoring the red stains that were seeping into her white dress. “Don’t pass out on me now, I’ve not even started.”  
With a touch to his forehead, the mugginess was gone, replaced by the absolute pain of his stinging face, and the dizzying nausea that came with knowing he should be unconscious on the floor right now.  
Her clawed hand raked through the cloth at his chest, drawing thin lines through it, turning it to ribbons. Still, it hung on his shoulders, which is where she aimed her claws next, bruising the backs of his arms as she pulled the cloth so tightly that it split, fine threads snapped from their interlocking weave.  
“Gabriel,” he whispered, trying to shout. He was too weak. His hands were covered with blood, sticky and disgusting.  
His trousers were cut from him, and she was chirping interestedly as she ran her talons through the cloth, not touching his skin, but tearing the material away until he was left in half-torn breeches, stained with blood.  
“What’s this?” Meg asked, curiously poking at Castiel’s stomach with a human finger.  
“GABRIEL!” Castiel yelled, collapsing under the effort.  
“Oh, _please_ ,” the Priestess said, sweetly, smiling altogether too slyly. “Only an angel, so weak and pathetic.”  
Gabriel burst through the door, sword held aloft. He saw the blood running down Castiel’s face and chest, and his eyes grew wide, taking in a breath. “Get away from him.”  
The Priestess smiled at Castiel, turning her face to observe Gabriel’s stance, both defensive and offensive. “I think not. Castiel, why don’t you tell Gabriel all the things I can do to him? The same way I can do them to you.”  
Castiel whimpered, eyes closing.  
“Tell him, Castiel. Otherwise tell him to leave; this isn’t his punishment.”  
“Gabe... Gabriel.” Castiel’s voice was thick and clicking with blood, tongue heavy. “Wait outside, I’m okay.”  
“Like hell you are. Get away from him, you evil, self-centred, conniving little mewling qu―”  
“Gabriel, get out!” Castiel warned, wishing he had never called him in the first place. There were monstrous things Meg could do to him, worse things than she would ever dare to do to Castiel. She could never hurt Castiel permanently, she needed him alive. Now he knew, that was so she could siphon his power from him.  
“I’m not leaving you, Cas.” Gabriel took a step closer, sword poised to attack.  
“Cas?” the Priestess asked, eyes going from Gabriel to Castiel. “A nickname?”  
Castiel’s stomach felt like it had bottomed out, a torrent of ice rushing over him, running in his veins. The name from her lips was like poison to his ears, it tasted wrong in the air, seeing a vicious desecration when her mouth moved around the syllable.  
Gabriel clearly felt the same, because his sword trembled, and he lowered it slightly, horror in his eyes at realising what he’d just done.  
“Gabriel, please get out,” Castiel begged him, eyes wearily drawn up to meet the other fallen angel’s. Gabriel nodded, resenting every movement as he lowered his sword to his side and backed out of the door, face paled.  
Castiel knew he was waiting on the other side. It was for the best; if he was here, she would hurt Gabriel as well as himself, and more so for both of them. At least this way, there would be an end to it, eventually.  
“Anyway, what was I saying?” Meg asked, cheerfully. “Oh, yes.”  
She drew her eyes down to Castiel’s stomach again, resting on the skin at his navel. “Tell me what this is, angel.” She poked a claw into the dried semen that covered him there.  
Castiel did not answer, radiating shame - not shame for his acts, but rather for the fact that she saw it. It was not for her eyes, nor anyone’s.  
“Very well, angel.” She sniffed, tilting her head again, looking at him from another angle. All he could do was stand there, her hand still holding him up, resting on his collarbone, below his throat. “I see you have discovered human pleasures.”  
Castiel almost smirked, realising she thought it was his own discharge, not another man’s.  
“You lie to me, you disobey, you hide my ring from me as if I don’t own you. And now you show me this _filth_.” She brought her mouth right up to his, breath sweet like fruit over his bloody lips. “You are disgusting.” She spat into his mouth.  
Castiel shoved her away, spitting the contents of his mouth into the floor, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, smearing blood over his pale face. He stood on shaky legs, breeches so heavy with blood that they were falling from his hips, barely resembling clothing any more.  
She raised her hand, about to strike him with a powerful magical blow. Without thinking, he protected himself, a mirroring hand placed between his body and hers, forcing a shield between them. His body was weak, his magic was unpractised, so she she swiped his defence from the air like a bothersome fly. He was weakened by her attack on his power, like she had not only taken the shield, but a part of the energy he had used to create it as well.  
“You... _dare_ ,” she said, slowly and softly, dangerous. “You dare to use your power. In front of me. _Against_ me?” Her voice raised to a shout, more furious than Castiel had ever seen her. It was like her eyes had turned red with fire. “YOU _DARE_ , CASTIEL?”  
Castiel straightened from his scrunched-up position curled over his knees, only just standing. He shook a breath, blood flickering from his mouth as he breathed. “I dare. I have done nothing wrong.”  
Meg stopped, looked at Castiel, and laughed. “You poor thing. How very wrong you are.”  
Her face blossomed into a curl of rage, lips drawn back in a snarl as she whipped her hand across his face, the first strike of many. Again and again she hit him, slicing his face with her claws. Torn flesh tore further, lacerations making their way down his neck, making it hard for him to breathe. Blood collected in his mouth, and he didn’t know whether he was meant to swallow it, but he had no choice, he would choke otherwise.  
“You are mine, angel. You will do as I say.”  
She cut a letter into his chest. M for Meg Masters.  
“You are filthy and vile, your human pleasures are common and you have no right to be feeling them. You will not touch yourself again.”  
She ripped the remains of his breeches from him, leaving him naked and bloody and humiliated. “Agree with me.”  
“No.”  
“ _Agree with me_.”  
“I will not.”  
She dragged her claws through the smear on his abdomen, semen already washed by blood, which was sliced away by sharp cuts that dragged down and further down, until a single claw drew all the way along the shaft of his penis. He was too pained to scream. He thought of Dean’s face, and forced himself to translate the pain into nothing. It was impossible. He bled from every limb, blood running down his legs, feet slippery. He could not pass out, she wasn’t letting him. He couldn’t die, as he was immortal. He was forced to stand there and bleed.  
“I hope you get the message, Castiel, or I will be forced to repeat your lesson.”  
Castiel deemed it more sensible to stay silent rather than let loose the hatred he was harbouring for her. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, studying the shallow curves of the sheets as they hung limply from every surface.  
“I am not going to call Cupid. You can suffer this time, as you made me suffer when I waited for you. As you humiliate me, I humiliate you. You do not have any of my respect.”  
Castiel waited, hoping she would leave soon. He needed Gabriel here, he needed him to call Cupid. The pain was unbearable, he could hardly think any more. Everything was a blur of red.  
She clicked her fingers and her dress was white again, no longer running with spilt blood. She looked down her nose disdainfully at Castiel, who remained impassive, and turned heel, striding for the exit.  
“You are not leaving this room again, Castiel.”  
She slammed the door behind her and locked it. Given that there was never a lock on the door, it was done by magic. Gabriel would have a hard time getting inside.  
Castiel didn’t notice the moment when he fell over; one second he was standing upright, trembling from head to toe, naked, slowly-drying blood still pouring from him endlessly - then he was crumpled on the wooden floor, lying in a pool of his own vital fluid.  
~x~  
Sam gaped at Castiel, a hand over his mouth in dismay at Castiel’s recollection.  
Castiel seemed unable to continue for a long while, chin resting on his knees as he hugged them to his chest.  
“Cas?”  
“I just... need a little time to collect myself. Forgive me, it’s... trying.”  
“It’s okay, I get it. I mean - I don’t _get_ it, but - God, I’m so sorry.”  
“Thank you,” Castiel said, appreciating Sam’s efforts. He rocked into Sam’s hand at his back, eased by the warmth.  
Sam wanted to hug him, let him know he was there for him. He tried to show Castiel this with his thoughts, offering comfort and support. Castiel caught his eye and nodded gently, closing his eyes and sinking his nose between his bent knees.  
Sam let him compose himself, doing nothing more than sitting beside him with his hand on the man’s back. He listened to the rain, still pouring onto the ground outside. Chevy slept now, her head hung low as she stood silently nearby.  
Castiel eventually lifted his chin, taking a breath. “My power was not as weak as I thought it was,” he said, voice even again, with none of the emotion that had been cracking every word before. “I was as powerful as the other fallen angels; I could do as many ‘tricks’ as they could. I could move objects, control other beings - I could basically do anything I wanted, I had just never been allowed.  
“She was so much more powerful though, that was how she could stop my protective magic. It wasn’t a lack of practice, as I thought at the time. She was - she still is, as powerful as a god, should such a being ever walk on this Earth.” Castiel shook his head, lips pressed together.  
“I had no chance against her, not while she controlled my power.”  
“How was she doing it?”  
Castiel looked up at Sam. “I will get to that. But for now...”  
He lowered his head, seemingly in thought. Sam thought he was going to start telling his story again, but was surprised when he stood up, the too-long tunic flapping around his legs. He crossed the stable, heading for Chevy. Sam sat up on his knees, ready to stop him should he be running away again - but Castiel only went for her saddlebag, lifting the leather flap and rummaging inside.  
Sam saw crumpled parchment being carefully lifted and replaced in the bag as Castiel searched around it. Sam knew it was covered in writing, notes passed between Dean and Castiel over the years. Even when the paper was full, they had kept it.  
Castiel pulled out something too small for Sam to see from where he kneeled. But Castiel kept his eye on the item as he made his way back, sitting cross-legged in the thin layer of hay by Sam. Sam relaxed and leant against the mounting block once more.  
“I have been using my magic, since Dean and I were separated by the curse. I know how terrible that must seem, to lessen my life, to use my power for... I suppose, selfish reasons. But...”  
He handed Sam the thing he held, and Sam took it. It was a ring.  
“You made Dean this?”  
“I created it from nothing, stealing from nothing but the air.” He looked proud of it, if miserably so. “It’s taken me years, using the smallest bursts of creation... I can’t make it right. It’s still incomplete.”  
Sam studied it, running a thumb over the silver band. It was smooth on the inside, but the outside was twisted in a wave, a repeating pattern that curled over it. It shone almost golden in the light of the pitch torch, but Sam could see it was pure silver.  
“It’s beautiful.” It was a match for the golden ring Dean made for Castiel, easily.  
“I think I might only know what’s missing when I see him again. It could be as much as seeing it on his finger. I think I need that, to see him wear it.”  
“You will, Cas.”  
Castiel smiled, eyes on the ring in Sam’s palm. He reached out and took it back, spinning it slowly between two fingertips in front of him. “I hope he’ll like it.”  
Sam grinned. “He’s gonna be head-over-heels that you made a ring for him, trust me.”  
“The society of Zamreer holds rings as a symbol of power, or control, or one’s place in the way things work.”  
“And for marriage,” Sam added, softly.  
Castiel nodded, but uncertainly. “I don’t mean it to show ownership, nor to say he is my... property. But neither do I mean for it to represent marriage. Dean and I are nothing like a man and woman, we have never followed the same rules. Marriage would be the wrong course for us.”  
“But it has some meaning, right? Of your... uh, profound bond?”  
Castiel laughed out loud, head falling against the mounting block. His eyes crinkled, and Sam couldn’t help but smile too. “Yes, I’m sure it means something like that. I think we can make it mean something new, in time.”  
Sam kept smiling, letting Castiel focus on the ring in his hand for a minute or so. Castiel began to throw it very gently in the air, tossing its weight so it flipped and landed back in his hand. On perhaps the fifth toss, it stayed in the air, rotating very slowly in seemingly random directions like a gyroscope.  
Sam watched in wonder; never before had he seen magic performed. “Holy crap.”  
Castiel looked pleased, raising a hand to hold his fingers an inch from the floating ring, pinching them together. In the metal of the ring, grooves began to appear between each wave, a shallow dip, as if made by a knife.  
The ring turned, and once the grooves were cut all the way around, perfectly symmetrical, Castiel let it drop to his hand, running a thumb over it to feel the difference.  
“Wow,” Sam said, impressed. It was only a slight expression of Castiel’s full power, but it was more than Sam had ever seen. All the other fallen angels were out of magic now, and before then he’d been out of the city, only ever hearing of, but never seeing, one of the legendary Angels of Zamreer.  
“I doubt you will ever see a full display of magical power,” Castiel told him. “The only beings left in existence with this kind of power are myself, the Priestess, and Death.”  
“But if we’re headed to Zamreer, we might see both of them. If Dean’s really all that set on the insane task of killing Meg, she might - not that I’m hoping for it, obviously - but she might use her power against him.”  
Castiel nodded. “He doesn’t stand a chance, if her power is as strong as it was back then.”  
Sam wanted to press him for more, but Castiel closed the ring in a fist, then sat back and sighed. “Are you tired? I can continue my story from where I left it...”  
“I only woke up a few hours ago. I’m good.”  
~x~  
Gabriel should have been there straight away. He should have been right outside the door, watching the blood pour from Castiel’s face and chest, hearing the thud as Castiel hit the floor. He should have turned invisible or hidden as the Priestess left, and as soon as she was gone, he should have been at Castiel’s side.  
But he wasn’t there, and he didn’t come. Castiel could barely spare a thought for anything except the pangs of torment that flowed through him. His bleeding cheek was pressed to the wooden floor, and he could feel the blood collecting in the Priestess’ heel-dug grooves. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, red bitterness rising like bile in his throat.  
Minutes passed, and Castiel was too drained to wonder what was going to happen to him. Agony, that was all he felt.  
“It’s locked.”  
Castiel twinged, eyebrows creasing in a line of dried blood, skin pulling. Someone was coming.  
“Blast it.”  
“I can’t blast it, it’s locked with super Priestess magic.”  
“Here, through here. Blast it.”  
There came a sound of crushing stone, as loud as a canon. Castiel caught a whiff of dust that tickled his eyes, and he closed them, listening.  
“Someone’ll hear that.”  
“Who care- holy fuck. Cas.”  
“Oh Lord.”  
“Cas - _Cas!_ ” Gabriel’s hands found Castiel’s back, smoothing down his bare skin, cool to the touch. Castiel’s skin was slick with blood as Gabriel turned him over, Cupid sounding out a groan of shock as their eyes fell upon Castiel’s lacerated body.  
“I’m so sorry, buddy, I couldn’t stay here and - I had to get Cupe, I had to.”  
“Don’t - worry ‘bout it...” Castiel whispered, throat breathless.  
“Oh God, don’t talk, Cas. Cupid, get his chest.”  
“He’s bleeding out, he needs that inside him.”  
Gabriel lowered Castiel gently onto his folded legs, so Castiel’s head was leaning against Gabriel’s shoulder behind him. Castiel could barely see, but he saw the movement as Gabriel lifted the pools of red from the floorboards, letting it strain itself clean, then flowing back inside Castiel’s open wounds like veins through the air. It hit him, cold, and he whimpered. Gabriel gasped an apology, warming it for him and allowing Castiel to settle.  
“He’s bleeding again, you need to close that―”  
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” Cupid pressed a chubby hand to Castiel’s chest, sliding it through the fluid that was pouring out of him again. “This isn’t going to heal properly.”  
Gabriel sobbed, pressing his head to Castiel’s hair, burying his face against him. “I’m so sorry, bro.” He had never sounded that upset before. “She took control of my sword, I couldn’t move it. I got Cupid instead, if I waited you’d be left alone for even longer―”  
“It’s... ‘kay... G―”  
Gabriel shushed him, running a hand over his hair, smoothing it down. He kissed his forehead, sniffing back tears.  
“Oh sweetie, look what she did to you...” Cupid was almost in tears as well. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to touch...”  
Castiel opened his eyes to see Cupid holding his hand unsurely over Castiel’s groin, over the line of blood where the skin peeled from his member. Castiel could only blink assent before dropping his head into Gabriel’s neck, tears falling from his eyes before he knew they were coming.  
Hands pressed to him gently, as painlessly as Cupid could, but Castiel let out a great, racking sob, back arching as his whole body stung with anguish.  
“Shh, shh,” Gabriel said, cradling him. “It’s okay, we’re here.”  
There was a squeak of horror from the direction of the doorway, and Castiel couldn’t even see through his tears and the red of the blood on his face to see who made it.  
Gabriel lifted his head, swallowing. “Anna!”  
“Oh... oh my God, what happened?” Her voice was trembling with shock. “Castiel, are you oka- shit, you’re not okay, that’s not...”  
“Anna, please, don’t let anyone else in,” Gabriel warned her. She let out another soft breath, as Cupid’s hands ran over Castiel’s bloody body again and again.  
“Dean’s on his way, he had to finish up with―”  
Castiel sat bolt-upright with a cry. “No! No, I can’t - no! Please, he can’t see me like this.”  
Gabriel pulled Castiel back down, kissing him again as Castiel sobbed. “Cas, you’re going to be okay.”  
Castiel began to cry in earnest, tears flowing over his cheeks and running coolly into his ears; he could smell the salt mixing with the blood. His tears stung his open flesh, and it felt like his face was sizzling.  
“Shit...”  
“P-please, don’t let him see me.”  
Gabriel looked to Cupid, who swallowed heavily. Together they raised Castiel to his feet, letting him rest a blood-slick arm over Gabriel’s shoulders, and hanging on to him for dear life as they crossed into the washroom.  
Castiel felt like he was lost in some kind of nightmare, like it would all fall away in a blink. He blinked, hard, then again, again, and again. He began to cry once more, collapsing onto the floor of the washroom as Gabriel lowered him back into his embrace.  
“I am going to murder her,” Gabriel whispered into Castiel’s ear, kissing the hair above it. “I am going to do everything she did to you, to her. She is going to _die_ for this.”  
“Gabriel. Stop it, you’re upsetting him,” Cupid said, resting a hand on Castiel’s cheeks again, and Castiel felt the skin knitting back together. “He just needs a friend, not a threat made for him.”  
Castiel thanked him mentally for the words; he didn’t want to think about the Priestess, nor revenge.  
“Dean’s here, he’s coming,” Anna whispered through the open door.  
“Close the door!” Castiel cried, hand raised, weakly managing to sway it on its hinges from halfway across the room.  
Gabriel grabbed his arm and brought it back down, pressed it to his side. “Don’t use your magic, Cas. Don’t.”  
Anna stole one last glance at the three fallen angels arrayed on the washroom floor, all of them covered in Castiel’s blood, then she shut the door.  
“Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded from the main room.  
Castiel wailed, pressing his face into Gabriel’s cheek, unable to stop himself shivering with his tears.  
“Cas... please, _God_. What’s going on?” Dean’s voice was torn, breathless from fast-onset panic. Anna responded in a softer tone, words that Castiel couldn't hear.   
“There’s... blood. Everywhere. It’s everywhere. Cas, please tell me you’re all right.” Dean was pressed to the door, head against it, Castiel could tell from how the wood carried his voice. He could just about see the shadow of his feet through the gap under the door. “ _Cas_.”  
“You need to tell him, honey,” Cupid said, quiet enough that nobody else except Gabriel could hear.  
“No... n-no.” Castiel trembled, still bleeding. He could actually feel the shape of the letter M in his chest, as it was the only cut left, open to the air. He realised it had been made with magic. It would bleed forever.  
“Cas, tell me you’re okay...” Dean’s voice was deep now, smooth like a heavy molten metal. “Can I come in?”  
“NO!” Castiel shrieked, throat ripping with his scream. “Please, Dean, go away!”  
“Cas, you can’t hide this from him,” Gabriel muttered against him. “Let him help you.”  
Castiel sobbed and sank down, burying his face in Gabriel’s lap, crying into his thighs. “Make him leave, _please_.”  
Cupid stood up, the heat of his body removed from Castiel’s side. The washroom door opened and shut, Dean spurting strained questions as soon as he saw Cupid’s face, and his hands, smeared with red.  
Castiel let himself cry, and Gabriel stroked his hair as his tears soaked his trousers.  
Cupid came back in with a soft sigh, and Castiel heard the quiet clicking and shuffling of he and Gabriel having a silent conversation. After a few seconds Gabriel put his hand back on Castiel’s hair, trying to soothe him.  
“Let’s get you washed up, pet. Come on.”  
Castiel let himself be dragged to his feet, floppy as a ragdoll. The pain was lessened now, his discomfort mostly caused by the sting of the M on his chest and the crust of blood that covered him, still damp, and thickening as it pooled on him.  
He couldn’t stop crying.  
He let them stand him in the tub, his legs dragging over the edge as he lacked the will to pick them up properly. Gabriel stood to the side, holding him up with his hands under Castiel’s arms. Cupid poured hot water over him, washing his tears away along with the red stains.  
Still he shook, and trembled, and sobbed.  
Cupid scrubbed a sponge on him, delicate over his chest. He scrubbed a little harder on Castiel’s lower stomach, and Castiel no longer cared that someone had found the semen on him. It was nothing more than disgusting clumps of thickened blood now.  
Thoughts began to fill him; curses and pained realisations. He couldn’t make them stop, in the same way that he couldn’t stop his tears, even as they were washed away, again and again.  
“Oh, honey, no.” The water ceased its cascade, and Cupid set the bucket down. Gabriel raised his head, looking at Cupid in question. “You’re not worthless, sweetheart. You’re not.”  
Castiel only realised he’d thought that when Cupid said it aloud. And the truth of it swept over him like another bucket of water, this one ice-cold.  
“I have no purpose. I am only here as Meg’s plaything. She feeds off my power and does no good in the world, only exists to hurt me. I am worthless to everyone.”  
“Honey... Castiel. It’s not true. Castiel, please know how much you are loved, by everyone. All of us. We’re your friends.”  
Gabriel took Castiel in his arms from behind, holding him to his chest. “You mean everything to us.”  
Castiel found himself pulled out of the tub, pressed between two bodies in a long, warm hug.  
“You are loved, Castiel. Know it, believe it.” Cupid stroked his face with a wet hand, eyes shining. Castiel met his gaze, and Cupid’s expression broke as he realised how hopeless Castiel felt in that moment.  
“The Priestess is the one who is worthless, Castiel. You said it yourself, she does no good. You on the other hand... you bring joy and happiness. Dean loves you. He needs you.”  
Castiel’s voice turned bitter. “He never needed me before, he needs nobody.”  
“I can feel your lie, Castiel. You know it’s not true.”  
Castiel collapsed into fresh sobs, head against Cupid’s chest. “I don’t want him to need me like he does, I can’t give him what he needs. I’m empty, I’m soulless. I’m an angel, he’s a human - I have nothing I can give him!” He knew he was just forcing out words, none of them meaning anything.  
“Why don’t you ask him if that’s true.”  
Castiel tried his best to pull himself together with a long sniff. “I don’t know what I’m saying anyway, I’m delirious.”  
Cupid chuckled, hugging him tightly. Gabriel let go from the other side and there came a whoosh of sound as he created something - Castiel turned to look, seeing a new pair of breeches falling delicately into his hand. “Thank you.”  
“It’s nothing, bro.”  
Castiel stood there, staring down at the white fabric. He began to feel an itch on his heart, and he turned to look before he scratched―  
“Oh, my.”  
“Power of love ought to do it,” Gabriel said with a chuckle.  
The M on his chest ceased its weeping, the skin tightening even without Cupid’s touch.  
Castiel’s eyes released one last tear as he laughed, hiccuping. Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him with a warm nudge.  
Cupid pulled Castiel back into the tub. Gabriel took the breeches before they got wet, and Cupid poured a final bucket of water over Castiel.   
Castiel stepped out, legs feeling stronger now, and he was wrapped in a warm towel, and pulled into another embrace, this one the tightest he had ever felt. He leant into Gabriel’s heat, dripping water on him, but Gabriel didn’t mind. “You’re never going to be hurt again, I promise.”  
“You can’t promise that.”  
“You’re not going to be left alone, she won’t hurt you.”  
“She will always find a way to hurt me.” Castiel sniffed, pulling away. “I cannot escape her.”  
He swallowed, and, eyes down, pulled on the breeches, tying them, then heading for the door.  
“Castiel, wait―”  
He opened the door and raised his eyes to see Dean sitting on the end of his bed, heels pressed to the edge of the mattress as he held his knees to his chest. He stood up the second he saw Castiel standing in the doorway.  
“Dean.” Castiel could not identify the emotion he felt.  
“Cas.” Dean looked stricken. Anna stood behind him, eyes looking for blood on Castiel but only seeing his hair dripping water all over himself.  
“You’re okay,” Dean breathed, looking Castiel up and down. Castiel folded his arms over his chest, sensing Cupid and Gabriel sneak out of the washroom behind him. “You’re... okay?”  
Castiel nodded shakily. He knew his eyes were red from crying, and there was the light, fading scar of the M still on him, but he tried to hide it. His feet stood together, the toes of one foot wriggling over the other.  
Dean held out a hand, beckoning Castiel to him, eyes sunken and shiny. Castiel took a hesitant step forward, then another, then ran the rest of the way.  
Dean tugged him close, hands running over his back, trying to pull him as near as possible. Castiel clutched the back of Dean’s shirt, his fingers tangling in it. He gasped against Dean’s shoulder, lips opening wide over the covered heat of his muscle. Dean kissed his cheek, then his forehead, then stopped.  
Castiel lifted his head, not sure why Dean hadn’t nudged him and pressed his lips to his own.  
Dean’s eyes were on their audience, and Castiel turned around to see the faces around the room: Gabriel and Cupid and Anna. Anna looked confused, eyes darting to the others with a questioning gaze.  
Gabriel smirked. “Let’s give them some privacy, hm?” He shooed Anna out first - and that was when Castiel realised there was a gaping hole in his wall, big enough to drive a cart through. Rubble surrounded it, and although he couldn’t see the corridor through it from where he stood wrapped in Dean’s arms, he knew that was where it led.  
Cupid made a detour on his way out, pausing with a hand on Castiel’s naked shoulder. “Tell him, honey. You can’t keep this from him.”  
Then he left, clambering over stone blocks and gravel, disappearing through the hole in the wall. As Castiel watched him leave, the wall picked itself back up, rearranging itself around a second door, this one a few feet from the first. An alternate entrance, this one not locked magically. Gabriel would have made sure that the Priestess would not be able to see it.  
“Cas?” Dean asked, his name drifting over Castiel’s lips, followed by a warm kiss that Castiel returned instantly, tongue licking at Dean’s lips. “Cas, what’s going on?”  
Castiel dropped his face from Dean’s, his wet hair pushing into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “The Priestess decided to punish me.”  
Dean hugged him tighter. “What did she think you did wrong?”  
Castiel smiled a watery smile, encouraged by the fact that Dean hadn’t asked, “What did you do?” as if he really had done something misguided.  
Castiel’s smile fell as he let out a shaky breath. “There are things I haven’t told you.”  
“Try me, I’m all ears. I’m not gonna judge.”  
Castiel swallowed, eyes closing. “I used my power after I promised you I wouldn’t.”  
“What for?”  
“There was a horse in the stable, she was in pain and I had to make her better.”  
Dean blinked against him, kissing his shoulder. “That’s you, Cas, no one creature any less deserving than another. You’re kinda beautiful like that.”  
Castiel rumbled a short laugh. “She was... very angry at me before. Last night, I avoided her so I could be with you.”  
“‘cause you’re a freaking badass, Cas,” Dean said, kissing his lips, pushing his head back as he rolled forward into Castiel’s mouth. “You’re as bad as me. I love avoiding shit I hate.”  
Castiel cupped Dean’s face in his hands, and saw Dean’s eyes were swimming with tears. “Why are you so accepting of all of this?” Castiel frowned, shaking his head very gently. “Why aren’t you angry at me for breaking my promise? For using you as an excuse to get away from her?”  
Dean bit back a grin, smiling into the kiss he held on Castiel’s lips for a long while, finally pulling away to say: “I wasn’t an excuse, Cas.”  
Castiel hung his head. “I know. I don’t know why I said that.”  
“And, I’m not angry? Because I’m a rational, sensible, think-before-I-leap sort of guy.” He laughed along with Castiel as he said it. “And people don’t get angry at people they love, not like she does. You don’t hurt them. I hope you _get_ how much she doesn’t love you. It’s not love.” He kissed Castiel, then repeated his words, softer. “It’s not love.”  
Castiel tried very hard not to cry again, wiping his face on Dean’s shirt, trying to push his tears back inside.  
“Come on, c’mere,” Dean said, whispering. He took Castiel by the hand and led him over to the bed, crawling onto it, letting Castiel join him before he kicked his boots over the edge, and wrapped his arms and legs around the fallen angel. They rolled to the side, Castiel lying on Dean’s right, facing him.  
The smooth white blankets surrounded them, and Castiel wriggled his toes over the silk to find Dean’s warmer feet, rubbing along his skin and back again. Dean sighed, shuffling closer.  
They said nothing, only held each other. Castiel fell into a lull of security, feeling a glow that Dean extended to him, like tendrils of gold twining down Dean’s arms and crossing over to Castiel’s body, lifting his spirits. He sighed, content at last.  
“If I didn’t have you,” Castiel said, throat finally clear of the taste of blood, “and Gabriel, and Anna, Cupid, Death - all of you. My friends. I don’t know what I would do. I would be so broken. I would have nothing to fight for, I wouldn’t even know how to fight.”  
“You know, sometimes, Cas... Even though it’s not what feels right... it’s better not to fight. I’m not saying you should do everything she says, but... when you’re down, don’t let her kick you.”  
“She didn’t kick me―”  
“Figure of speech. When she’s hurting you, you don’t have to give her fuel for her fire.”  
Castiel sank back a little, eyes flickering. “But if it were you... wouldn’t you fight? To the last? To death, even? You wouldn’t back down, not even if it meant she stopped her torture.”  
Dean winced as he said ‘torture’. He sucked in a breath, then replied, “I would. You’re right, I would. I’d fight until I was beyond repair. But I can’t have you hurt, Cas. She won’t do this to you again, there won’t be a next time.”  
“There is always a next time.”  
Dean shook his head, rustling the sheets. “No.”  
He shuffled forward again, arms encompassing Castiel, stroking his damp hair with an open hand. Castiel nudged him and wished they could be closer. He twined their legs together, his bare skin to Dean’s trousers, their feet touching.  
“Cas?”  
“Hm?”  
“How come you didn’t wear your perfume last night? When you came up to, uh, make, um - screw me.” Dean pressed the question from his lips into Castiel’s cheek, breathing in his scent. He was clean now, nothing on him. No hair lotion, no perfume, no sweat, nothing. “I figured that would be the time you would, if any.”  
Castiel swallowed hard. So hard he left a lump in his throat. “I don’t have the bottle any more.”  
Castiel felt Dean’s face contort against his own as he frowned. “Where is it?”  
“Meg took it.”  
Dean’s hands curled in angry fists at Castiel’s back, and Castiel didn’t fight Dean’s anger. He felt the same, even if he acted more subdued about it.  
“Why did she take it?”  
Castiel pulled back a few inches so he could meet Dean’s eye. He replied like it was already obvious. “Because she wanted it. That’s what she does.”  
“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed.  
“Dean, it’s nothing,” Castiel pleaded, knowing a retaliation was building in Dean’s thoughts. “It’s nothing, please don’t―”  
“I’m stealing it back for you, you know that right?”  
“Dean, you’re only going to exacerbate matters, you’d have to find it and get it without her knowing, it’s idiotic.”  
“Exacer-what-now?”  
“Exacerbate. To make a situation worse. This isn’t going to solve anything.”  
“Maybe not. But Cas, she took your stuff. I can’t just let her―”  
“I told her Cupid bought it for her. Not you for me.”  
“Wh... why did you...?”  
“She cannot know that I know you. If she ever works out the things we do together...” Castiel felt a clench inside him. “She would kill you. I know she would kill you. She gets jealous, and she removes the problem from the Earth. Obliterates it completely.”  
“Fuck her, Cas.”  
Castiel pulled away sharply. “I can’t - no! Dean, why would you―”  
“Cas, Cas, come here, shh.” Dean reached for Castiel, hands over his cheeks, rubbing him with his thumbs. “It means, like, screw her, like an insult. I wouldn’t tell you to do _that_ with her, God.”  
Castiel calmed down, shivering. He still felt out of sorts. Sickened, almost. “I think I hate her, Dean. I’ve never hated anything in my life.”  
Dean kissed him, long, slow, passionately. He pulled away slightly to nod. “Good for you, Cas.”  
Castiel snuffled and wriggled to press himself closer again, hands in Dean's hair. “I hate her as I hate this room, and I’m trapped here. I’m never leaving. I can... I can never leave again.”  
“We’re gonna get you out, okay? We’ll find a way. Sneaking around is what I do best.”  
“Also, fighting, kissing, and making love,” Castiel added. “And being a good friend.”  
Dean smiled softly.  
“But while I am trapped... I cannot sleep here,” Castiel said, at a final loose end. “This room is filled with memories, reminders of my own suffering. And years and years of loneliness, before I learned to discover.” He touched his fingers to Dean’s lips, and Dean kissed them. “I see nothing but pain here.”  
Dean sighed, breath moist over Castiel’s hand. Then he smiled. “There’s a way to fix that, you know.” Castiel flashed a minute frown at him, which Dean replied to with a sly smirk. “Make new memories.”  
Castiel swallowed. “What do you mean, exactly?” He already sensed the sexual tone in Dean’s words, but he was curious.  
Dean bit the tip of Castiel’s finger, just gently. “Mark it as yours. Ours. Screw on everything, in every damn position. Rub our fucking cocks on everything. She’ll never know, but we will.”  
While Castiel was intrigued by the idea, he was hesitant to immediately agree. “She found the... your mark. On me. On my skin. She hurt me for it.”  
Dean’s playful smirk dropped. “Oh, sh...”  
Castiel bit his lip, eyes falling to Dean’s mouth. “She will not find any mark we leave, now. I won’t let her see; we can hide them, can’t we?” He was resolute, determined not to let fear get in the way.  
Dean’s face gingerly raised into half a smile. “Yeah, Cas.” He blinked a couple of times, eyes closing as he said, “I, uh―” he opened his eyes again, “I had to wash yours off. It kind of got icky after it dried. Yeah, it was hot, but... then it got gross.”  
Castiel laughed, headbutting Dean. “That’s understandable.” He laughed again, ending with a snuffly kiss on half of Dean’s lips.  
“Plus, Gordon smelled the sex on me,” Dean admitted. “He kept asking me who it was, and I kept wanting to just, kind of, blurt it out. But that’s dumb, I couldn’t.”  
“I don’t want Gordon to know.”  
“I know that.” Dean took Castiel’s hand in his. “You... wanna get started with the screwing, or you wanna rest a bit?”  
Castiel tilted his head into the blanket. “I would like to screw. Now.”  
Dean blinked, slowly. “Cool.”  
Only a heartbeat passed, and then they both leapt into a sudden flurry of movement, Castiel going for Dean’s belt, Dean going for Castiel’s breeches as he leaned over him. Dean’s shirt went next, hurled over the side of the bed, his trousers only just clumping around his thighs before Castiel kissed him roughly, biting and dragging his teeth over Dean's lips.  
“Mmh,” Dean muttered, bucking into Castiel’s hand as it slid under the waistband of his breeches, massaging him with slender fingers. Castiel felt him hardening, tiny pulses tugging him stiffer into his hand. Soon he could hold Dean fully in a loose fist, squeezing as Dean strained against the cloth of his underthings.  
“Where would you like to do it first?” Castiel asked, a straightforward question.  
Dean licked his lips. “Bed.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s, um - ten strokes. In each place. Then move on to the next position.”  
“Do you really expect us to... _everywhere?_ ”  
Dean grabbed Castiel by the hair, pulling him down so his ear brushed against sore lips. “Everywhere.”  
Castiel rolled his lower lip between his teeth, enjoying how it was so full and wet that it slid back out again. Dean followed the movement with his eyes and quirked a tiny grin, setting a hand over Castiel’s in his breeches, above the material, while Castiel’s hand was on Dean’s skin. Dean ground upward, the heat between his legs throbbing gently in Castiel’s fist.  
Then Dean flicked his fingers and untied his drawstring, shimmying out of the last of his clothing as he knelt up. Castiel lay back and admired the length that protruded between Dean’s legs. It curved up a little, cockhead reddening, veins beginning to stand out under the soft skin.  
“You like?” Dean asked with a very pleased grin. Castiel nodded, eyes darkening as he glanced to Dean’s bright green, the arousal he felt intensifying. Dean was so very beautiful, every inch of him.  
“Awesome.” Dean climbed on top of him and slid himself up against Castiel’s cock, taking them both in hand and jacking them together. “Ten-nine-eight-seven-shit-five-fuck- _mmh_ -two...” he shuddered and dragged the last stroke out, pulling their dicks close enough that they pulsed tightly, and Castiel felt Dean’s throb through his own flesh. “One.” Dean let out a sigh, then climbed right off Castiel, only making a couple of crawling lengths before lying on his front, legs open with his arms propping his torso up. He didn’t look back as he said, rumbling, “Get me from behind.”  
Castiel wriggled forward, feeling the heat of the body below him as he clambered on top of Dean, beading pre-come dragging over the skin of Dean’s ass. “How would you like it?”  
Dean grunted, hips grinding once, hard, down into the mattress. “Really, really fast.”  
And Castiel complied, lowering himself so his cock pressed into the cleft of Dean’s ass, and he made a first stroke, slow, but then bucked into a manic speed that had Dean crying out, hands clutching at the vibrating mattress.  
And then that was over, at a count of ten strokes. Dean collapsed, hips grinding down at a slower pace. Castiel slid a hand over his buttocks, travelling over the slim curves of Dean’s back. He had a very aesthetically pleasing back.  
He leaned over Dean, lips at his ear as his dick pressed into Dean’s ass again. “Now what?” he whispered, voice dangerously deep.  
“Edge of the bed.”  
Castiel pulled back, letting Dean scramble onto his butt, sitting with his knees over the edge of the mattress on the left of the bed. Castiel stood up, feet on the floor, toes curling. He met Dean’s eye, excited by the darkness of his pupils, so black he could no longer see the green ring around them.  
Dean spread his legs, leaning back on his hands. “Fuck me like a girl.”  
Castiel glanced down, seeing only a male penis between Dean’s legs, swollen and red. There were no girl parts, nothing he could―  
“Just put your cock between my legs and move. Just... I wanna be the girl.”  
Castiel tugged on himself, hand coming away slick. Licking his lips, biting them again, he sidled down to Dean’s level, awkwardly bending his legs to press his member against Dean’s perineum. Dean trembled, legs spreading further.  
Castiel bucked once, and Dean grunted, wrapping his legs over Castiel’s back, pulling him close. His hands were still sinking into the mattress behind him, and his eyes were on Castiel’s as the fallen angel wriggled and pressed his knees into the side of the bed, trying to get their position comfortable.  
He bucked again, then began to roll his hips, trying to imagine what he would be doing if Dean were female - but he couldn’t, all he felt was man, the pressure of a male organ against him. He reached ten strokes, but Dean wouldn’t let him stop, hips still grinding into Castiel’s, every thrust slipping on the bedsheets. His tipped his head back and groaned, thighs clenching around Castiel’s sides.  
Dean moaned again, kicking Castiel from behind gently, making him thrust harder. “I - I used to do this to - fuck - girls. I used to put them on the edge of the b- bed... I’d fuck them, Jesus, I loved it like this but - _uuuhh_... I never thought I’d―”  
He grunted, hands curling in Castiel’s hair, pulling his face to his lips. Dean kissed him feverishly, breaking each kiss after only a half-second, breathing hard through his mouth. “Harder, Cas.”  
Castiel groaned, pressing one long, excruciatingly deep thrust into Dean, balls squeezing between them.  
“Fuck me, oh God, fuck me,” Dean muttered, skin burning hot against Castiel.  
“What - what about the rest of the room?”  
Dean moaned, licking a long stripe up Castiel’s neck. Castiel almost flinched, but then realised what was happening and returned the favour, tongue open and flat from Dean’s collarbone up to his throat, tingling over his stubble. Dean whimpered.  
“Okay, okay - um, uh - up against the - against the wall.”  
Castiel kissed Dean once, a graze of lips, then pulled away, letting Dean go so quickly he collapsed, falling off the bed and landing on wobbly legs. He straightened up and made the few steps to the wall, pressing his back into the white sheet that hung like a looped tapestry between the two doors to the room: the one that had always been there, with the double door, and the new, single arch, put in by Gabriel.  
Dean’s face was playful, hips wriggling from side to side as he swung them, spreading his feet over the floor a shoulder-width apart. Castiel walked right up to him, and without hesitation, stuck his cock between Dean’s legs, rutting into him, hands not even on him. He reached up and placed his palms either side of Dean’s head, making the white drapery ripple. Dean kept his eyes on Castiel, focus intense for the both of them. Castiel only moved his hips, gyrating upward, cockhead running along the crease between Dean’s thighs, the place he’d left his orgasm this morning, since washed away.  
Dean huffed, biting his own lower lip and pressing marks into it. Castiel tilted his head, watching him. Dean let his lip go to say, huskily, “We passed ten already.”  
Castiel smiled. “I just like being able to touch you without using my hands.”  
Dean quirked an eyebrow. “I should tie you up sometime.”  
“Tie?”  
“Hold you down so you can’t use your hands. And have you fuck me. Just with your hips.” His eyes were on Castiel’s lips, which he licked as Dean watched, feeling how swollen they were, mostly from pure arousal.  
“I will hold you to that thought,” he breathed, suddenly right up against Dean, pressing the words into his mouth. Dean rolled his lips up into him, but Castiel pulled away before they connected.  
“Here,” Castiel said, finding one of the slim white bedposts that reached almost all the way to the ceiling. He took it in his hands, hips held far away, butt presented to Dean. “Do something to me.”  
Dean came up right behind him, heat brushing his skin. “Close your eyes.”  
“What are you going to do?”  
Dean huffed. “Dunno yet. I’ll make it up as I go along.”  
Castiel shut his eyes, only the light of day from the window letting itself in. It must be late afternoon now, he assumed, from the shallow drift of sunlight that occurred between midday and sunset. It was at that liminal phase when Castiel enjoyed not knowing if it were morning or afternoon if his eyes were closed.  
His thoughts were interrupted by a tongue. A tongue on his thigh. He gasped with his mouth slack, eyes lazily opening, then falling shut again. He whined with closed lips, hands wringing the bedpost. Dean’s tongue was so wet, soft and malleable. So hot against him.  
Dean breathed on his leg, ruffling Castiel’s hair. He lapped at him like a dog, once, twice - then moved the licking upward, changed to the other leg, head twisting as he alternated the angle. Castiel let out a stuttering breath, legs trembling as Dean’s mouth found his buttocks.  
The heat of his tongue slipped between Castiel’s asscheeks, a sensation that was so incredibly _slick_. He felt Dean’s nose on his tailbone, tongue stiffening into a harder muscle as Dean drew it down the cleft of his ass.  
Castiel moaned, mouth open. Dean moaned in response, tongue vibrating against Castiel’s anus.  
“Dean, I’m going to―”  
Dean pulled away sharply, swallowing hard. “Cool it, don’t do it yet.”  
Castiel shivered from head to toe, feet curled in on themselves. He tried to push down the heave of pleasure that threatened to spill, tingling, hissing through him. He whined, eyes opening and turning to the ceiling, gasping as he squinted at the hanging sheets.  
“You got it?” Dean asked, tentatively touching Castiel’s hip.  
“No - no, I’m still - don’t touch―” he panted, trying his utmost not to take himself in hand and pull himself the last stroke before he fell over that edge. One second longer of Dean’s tongue on him and he would have been riding the pleasure until he was empty.  
Dean chuckled, slapping Castiel’s rear. Castiel gritted his teeth, forcing the boil of prurience inside him to abate, still on edge. He drew a shuddering breath, hands clutching the bedpost so tightly his knuckles were white.  
“I take it you liked that, then,” Dean murmured, behind Castiel still.  
“Ye- yes,” Castiel breathed, finally finding the surges lessening. “I don’t think you should do that again, I will orgasm too quickly. We have only christened one side of the room.”  
“Christened?” Dean asked, grinning his words.  
Castiel let go of the bedpost, shaking his hands out as he turned around and leaned against it, spine lining up with it. “Leading it into a new life, free of pain, and making it new and whole.”  
“By fucking our sins into it,” Dean added.  
“Yes.” Castiel kissed him, a fingertip reaching to swipe the bead of pre-ejaculate from the head of Dean’s cock. “Now, where would you like to christen next?”  
Dean glanced at the room, seeing the grooves in the floorboards, the lines of hanging white sheets all over every wall, the panoramic window that they had not yet gone anywhere near. He looked behind him at the door to the washroom, but Castiel felt safe enough in there, as the Priestess had never bothered going inside. He tugged Dean away, indicating the other parts of the room, as of yet untouched.  
“Floor?”  
Castiel glanced down, studying the pock-marked wood. “I would like to fuck on top of this,” he said, kicking a bare foot along the place the Priestess always paced when she was angry.  
“Gotcha,” Dean said, stroking himself. He licked his lips, tongue darting out.  
Castiel bent down and sat on the ground, hands by his sides, palms down. He set his legs apart, looking up at Dean hopefully.  
“Cas, can I try something?”  
“Of course.”  
Dean licked his lips again, clearly nervous. He knelt, swallowing as he shuffled on his knees, barely lifting them as he moved closer to Castiel. He didn’t get too close, staying a half-pace away, opposite him. “I’ve uh... I’ve never done this before.”  
“What are you going to do?”  
Dean eyed the untouched cock between Castiel’s legs, watching as a drip of pre-come ran very slowly down its edge. “I had girls do it to me, but... I never wanted to try it until I met you. Then I kind of―” he tugged himself, twisting his hand over the head, “I wanted to, really friggin’ badly. I thought about doing it, when I was... lay awake by myself at night. I wanted to know what you tasted like.” He licked his lips again, blinking twice, slowly.  
“Taste...” Castiel began, then realised what Dean meant. “You want to put me inside your mouth?”  
Dean nodded timidly. “This is probl’y gonna be crap. Um.”  
Castiel raised his hips an inch, offering himself. “If it was too good, I would come too soon.”  
Dean grinned, touching his neck shyly. “Um, so, don’t hold out for anything too great. Just, uh, r- relax, or something. I usually lie back, or stand up―”  
“I will work out what to do. Please stop teasing me, I want what you’re offering. Let me feel your mouth, Dean.”  
Dean swallowed, then knelt forward, elbows on the floor, one arm hooking under Castiel’s bent knee. The other he pressed to Castiel’s inner thigh, steadying him so he wouldn’t buck upward. Castiel was so tender there that he shivered at the touch. Dean licked his lips once more, eyes meeting Castiel’s as he watched, still sitting up.  
Then Dean pulled his lips into an ‘O’ and lowered his open mouth over the head of Castiel’s cock. Castiel began panting, desperate for breath all of a sudden. He frowned while his mouth opened wide in shock, then closed to bite his lip, eyebrows folding outward. This was like no sensation Castiel had ever felt before. This was _incredible_.  
Dean’s lips closed over his flesh, teeth pulled back, tongue probing curiously. Castiel whimpered as that sinful wetness spread over his cockhead, tongue licking over him. Dean swallowed tightly, eyes hooded. Teeth nicked at Castiel’s cock but he only grunted, bearing it while Dean got his mouth relaxed. He didn’t seem sure how to breathe, unable to do so through his mouth, but huffing unevenly through his nose, too excited to exhale calmly. He pulled off for a second, licking his lips and considering how he should do this.  
Castiel’s cock felt the cold of the air hit him, a film of ice that evaporated quickly from the sheer amount of heat that pulsed in him. Dean wriggled, adjusting his hips and spread knees, moving his head so he was directly above Castiel’s crotch.  
Dean went down again, mouth open completely, tongue out flat to lick his way first. Castiel bit hard on his own lip, grunting as heat swelled again. He felt a pulse of liquid leave him, his legs unsteady as Dean swallowed around him. He couldn’t push past halfway down Castiel’s length, but his arm circled Castiel’s thigh to take the excess in hand, pumping it once as he sucked on the tip.  
Castiel couldn’t bear it any longer, falling back with a heavy thud to the floor, bucking once into Dean’s heat, and finding the hand that was on his thigh instead pressed hard to his hip, keeping him down. He longed to fuck upwards, pushing all of himself inside Dean, but Dean held him back. Dean swallowed again, trying to stop the line of hot saliva that escaped him, but Castiel didn’t mind; he felt the slickness travel him, hot over his balls, so very wet.  
Dean removed his mouth, instead licking and lapping along Castiel’s thickness, tongue changing between as soft as it had been on his thighs, and as hard as a stiff finger, wet and wrapped in a cover of thick, searing muscle.  
“Deaaaan,” Castiel moaned, head so fuzzy with pleasure that he felt like everything had slowed down. Everything was white with a Dean-ish haze, heat simmering in Castiel’s body, curling dirty lines up from between his legs, where Dean moaned, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the spot between the base of Castiel’s dick and his testicles.  
Castiel whimpered, toes pulled together so tensely that they were numbing. “Dean, _Dean_ \- mmh.”  
Dean pulled his mouth away, slinking his body over Castiel’s and pressing them together, cocks wet and slipping together through Dean’s saliva.  
“You’re going to come if I don’t stop,” Dean said, voice like a rich liquid, like wine. “Say my name again.”  
Castiel trembled. “You say my name first.”  
Dean sighed through his nose, eyelids lowering as he pressed their members together, hard. “Ten strokes. And then we both say it.”  
Castiel nodded, eyes on Dean as Dean began to rock. Castiel counted aloud. “One... two. Th- _mmh_. Three, four, five. Si... _uh_. Six, oh - _oh!_ Dean, do that again, do it again! Oh!”  
Dean rolled his hips in a circular manner, not the straight buck of before. Castiel put a hand in his own hair, raking it backwards as Dean turned on top of him, like he was stirring him.  
Dean grunted, sighing, then continued the countdown. “Five. Four. Three. Don’t come yet, don’t come - one. Quick, in front of the window.”  
Dean was already standing up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Castiel took his hand as it was offered, clutching Dean close before he moved away. “You forgot to say my name, _Dean_.”  
Dean smirked. “I didn’t forget. I’m just saving it for the big finale.”  
“Which is?”  
Dean squeezed Castiel’s dick, sliding his hand away to walk backwards to the window. “I’m gonna scream your name when I come.”  
Castiel flashed him a smile in return, following him to the window, only seeing Dean properly once his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun as they walked into it.  
“People can see us here, Dean,” Castiel said, worried.  
Dean shook his head, pumping himself gently in his hand. “We’re way above the ground, and nobody looks up here. Nobody would know we’re both guys if they saw us from down there, anyway,” he said, pulling Castiel flush against his body by his lower back, hand spread over his skin. “We could fuck right in front of them and nobody would know who we were. Captain of Zamreer, and the Priestess’ captive fallen angel, both men, not even allowed to be friends, or allowed together, or allowed to be naked together. That we’re sinning.” He kissed Castiel. “That we’re lovers.”  
“Lovers?”  
Dean smirked. “Nah, that doesn’t really work, does it?”  
“It’s not incorrect.”  
Dean began to rut against Castiel, both standing with no support apart from each other, sun on their lower halves, warm like fire on their skin. “It’s not quite right, either. Lovers are the stable boy and the princess, meeting in the palace to make love on a rose-petalled bed. Or the widow who has an affair with the sailor returned from a decade at sea. Not two men, not an angel and a soldier.”  
Dean spread his legs on the wooden floor, hands on Castiel’s lower back, fingers stroking firmly into his ass as he pulled him into tiny thrusts, their manhood pressed between their abdomens.  
“You don’t think a fallen angel and a soldier could find love?”  
Dean lowered his head against Castiel’s shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “Not two men.”  
“You can’t love me?”  
Dean’s head sank further into Castiel’s shoulder, eyelashes flickering on his skin. “I don’t mean that.”  
Castiel did not press as to whether Dean did or did not love him; he would tell him when he was ready.  
“Can we―” Dean started, lifting his head, topic changed. “Take these sheets?”  
He gestured to the white drapes that covered every flat surface, trailing loops from the ceiling.  
“What would you like to do with them?” Castiel asked, following his line of sight.  
Dean nibbled his lip, considering. “If I could, like, wrap them around me, hold me up. And I stand―” he stepped away from Castiel’s close embrace, directing a hand to a place in front of the window, “here, looking out. And you can be behind me, arms around me...”  
Dean broke off, flicking his eyes to Castiel’s. “I don’t mean, ‘arms around me’ like a cuddle, that’s... that’s kinda soppy. Um, I mean, just....”  
“Hold you.”  
“Hold _onto_ me. While you fuck me.”  
Castiel felt a throb between his legs, heavy and excited. “From behind.”  
Dean nodded eagerly. “Can we do that?”  
Castiel exhaled and glanced at the ceiling once more. “We would have to replace them exactly as we found them, or the Priestess... Meg - she would notice.”  
“We can do that,” Dean said, stepping back into Castiel’s space and rubbing their nakedness together for a couple of thrusts. He pulled away again, then bent his knees, and leapt with an arm raised to catch hold of the lowest sheet, dragging it with a wave of dust on top of himself. It came loose easily, unpinned or untethered, somehow held there by nothing at all.  
Dean sneezed, the dust around his face huffed away, and Castiel saw the puff of expelled air as it glittered in the sun. For something so strangely vile in theory, dust and sneezing together was attractive when Dean did it.  
Dean took either end of the sheet, the middle part still held fast to the ceiling above. Dean tugged on it gingerly, testing its strength, seeing if it could hold his weight. He pulled again and again, more forcefully each time. On the fifth go, he was convinced it would hold, and he beckoned Castiel to him with a jerk of his head.  
Dean took the sheet’s ends in hand, twisting them over his wrists with a circular movement, then a second and a third, so he was wrapped in it up to his arms, bands of skin showing through the thick lines of white linen around him.  
He leaned forward, legs spreading, letting the sheet take most of his weight. Soon his feet were almost as far apart as his arms, toes dragging over the floorboards. Castiel admired Dean’s sun-drenched form, limbs stretched outward into an X, the daylight highlighting his toned back. He touched his shoulder blade, enjoying the firm give of Dean’s skin.  
“All right, do it. I’m ready.”  
Castiel sidled up to his back, leaning forward to linger a breath in his ear, “Ready for what, Dean?”  
Dean flexed his shoulders, muscles rolling under Castiel’s palm. “Ready for you. Do it.”  
Castiel grinned devilishly. “Tell me exactly what you want, and I might... indulge you.”  
Dean growled, head tipping back. “Goddamn it Cas, I need to freakin’ come already.”  
“Tell me what you want,” Castiel hissed in his other ear, unexpectedly, and Dean whipped his head round to meet Castiel’s playful eyes, seeing him smirk.  
“Are... are you teasing me?” Dean asked, disbelieving.  
“I don’t know, am I? Castiel replied, knowing full well how treacherous he was being.  
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean complained.  
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Castiel purred, hand sliding down Dean’s back, his skin skightly slick with sweat. “It seems you’re a little tied up, I thought I’d take the chance to... fuck with you.”  
Dean grunted, swinging his hips upward. “Make me come. Jesus, just, make me... I wanna jizz all over something. Rub it in.”  
“How would you like to get there?” Castiel asked, tugging a hand over himself. He liked Dean shivering like this, wanting - _needing_ him. It was so incredibly wrong that it felt titillating to the extreme.  
“Fuck into me. Cas, _God_. Just... stick your cock up against me and rub it, okay?” He moaned, fists clenched, grasping for purchase in the sheet.  
“I want to―” Castiel wasn’t really sure how to do this, but the teasing was almost natural for him. He wasn’t certain how to get this last part, though. “You should beg me?”  
Dean huffed a laugh, swaying as he bucked his hips again. “You seriously want that?” He sounded quite surprised.  
“No,” Castiel admitted. “I just wanted to know if I could ask.”  
He pressed a kiss to Dean’s neck, then another, higher, hand slipping over Dean’s shoulder as a flurry of kisses came, body pressed against Dean’s, heat against heat, flesh against flesh. He gently took hold of Dean’s throat, guiding it to him as he trailed kisses on his skin, Dean turning his head towards him, meeting their mouths. It was strange, to be kissing backwards, with Dean facing the wrong way, but Castiel leaned over his shoulder and rolled into it, lips at an odd, interesting angle. Their stubble bristled between them, prickling at Castiel’s lips. Dean moaned into the kiss, and Castiel sighed.  
“Okay, Cas, you gotta - you gotta, _now_ , I need it now.”  
Castiel nodded, hand curling over Dean’s hip, finding a flat part, fingertips pressing into the delicate skin under Dean’s hipbone. Castiel wanted to kiss Dean there; it was one of his favourite places to touch on himself. He noted it for later, when Dean and he are face-to-face.  
Steadying Dean as he swayed, Castiel shuffled his feet until he felt sturdy on the ground, then positioned his cock under Dean’s body, feeling the burn of hot skin against himself, finally.  
Dean keened in relief, mouth closed. Castiel wriggled his feet again, spreading them wider. Dean was spread so far apart that he was a an inch shorter than Castiel when Castiel leaned into him, rocking his member between the tops of his thighs.  
Castiel felt the hard line of Dean’s cock as he pressed deeper, causing them to slide together as Castiel tipped his hips up. He kept his knees bent so he could press himself all the way through under Dean’s buttocks, until he could feel the sun on his dick, right next to Dean’s.  
Dean looked down, watching them push together, side-by-side, fallen angel against soldier.  
“Fuck,” Dean muttered, legs quaking. Castiel could see he was thinking about closing his legs, letting Castiel be squeezed between his thighs, but Castiel slipped his hand, the one not on Dean’s hip, between his legs, keeping his thighs apart.  
“Someone could see us,” Dean mused, head falling back, sighing, biting his bottom lip. Sunlight swayed back and forth over his face, reaching his cheeks then back to his chin, as Castiel had him rocking his own weight, drifting on the hanging sheets. “Someone could look up, and see us, see two men fucking.”  
It was the exact same thing Dean has assured Castiel that wouldn’t happen, minutes before. They were safe here, but yet Dean seemed to be very stimulated by the thought of danger, like always. Castiel sighed and pressed a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. “Why do you like that idea so much?”  
“I don’t actually want anyone to find us,” he breathed, head still back, Castiel still rutting upward, slicking the skin between Dean’s legs. “I just like how it is that we’re doing this, ‘cause it’s wrong, and it’s bad, and we shouldn’t.”  
“You like sin?” The hand on Dean’s hip slid upward to Dean’s chest, fingering an erect nipple.  
“Yeah. Fuck yeah, I love sinning with you.”  
“Not just any two men?”  
Dean cocked his head to one side, trying to shrug but finding his shoulders trussed. “I guess... I guess guys together are hot. I just like _you_ , though. You’re the only guy... I never...”  
“I never found any person attractive before I met you,” Castiel confessed, breathing in Dean’s earthy scent, his skin bitter from sweat, but sweet to the taste. “You are the only p- _mm_ , person that I could touch like this. Or let touch me.”  
Dean grinned, hips jerking helplessly as Castiel’s cock ran its head under the base of his own, dragging the skin a little. “I don’t think I want another girl.”  
“I’m not a girl?”  
“I mean... I couldn’t do it with a girl again, not after you.”  
“But with another man?”  
Dean stopped bucking, feet sliding closer together so he was more sturdy as he stood. He turned his head slightly so Castiel could see the side of his face, chiselled jaw and straight nose like a silhouette in the sunlight. “I mean I don’t think I could fuck anyone else. Anyone. Just you.”  
Castiel stood up properly too, but didn’t pull free. “Nobody?”  
Dean blinked rapidly a few times, then licked his lips. “Lifetime deal, somehow. I dunno. The thought of it feels wrong.”  
Castiel sighed, eyes not sure where to look for a few seconds. His gaze chanced upon Dean’s face again, then stayed there. “But you always enjoyed promiscuity so much... How can that change?”  
Dean pulled his face back to gaze out at the sunlit city through the window, the church just visible off to the left. “Sometimes that happens to people, Cas.”  
“Did it happen for you and Cassie?”  
Dean dropped his chin to his chest, and Castiel expected a harsh word, an instruction to shut up and keep on pleasuring Dean. But Dean sighed, shaking his head. “That’s why Cassie and me stopped. It never happened, and we both drifted. We wanted something else.”  
“But you want me?” Castiel was prompting for something, not sure if he would get it. He got nothing more than a solemn nod, but took that as enough.  
“Okay,” Castiel said, kissing the skin between Dean’s shoulder blades, whispering. “Okay.”  
Castiel began anew, thrusting his cock back through Dean’s thighs, and Dean grunted and spread his legs once more; Castiel didn’t bother getting his footing solid this time, leaning into the thrusts with only the balls of his feet on the floor as all his weight fell into Dean, whose toes dragged weightlessly over the ground.  
Castiel was leaning forward, and so was Dean, only up to his hips, his erection the furthest point from him, only a hand’s breadth from the window. From there, his torso curved backward, held back by the sheets, his hands clutching the fabric tighter and tighter as his moans got louder. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean like he had asked; holding him. But not holding _onto_ him, just holding him.  
Dean wailed, gasping, sounding broken as he panted desperately; Castiel was filling him with heat, both of them close to reaching their peak. Dean was going to go first, Castiel knew, as he was enjoying the feel of Castiel between him too much. He loved that closeness, that feel of Castiel so near to him, almost inside him.  
“Cas... _Cas_ ―” Dean gasped, already knowing what was going to be on his lips as he spilled. “Make me come, Cas, make me - oh fuck, Cas - Cas, Cas!” Dean tensed all over, hands weakening their grip on the sheets, slipping from him in swirls of fabric. Castiel knew he was going to fall as the cloth unravelled, so took Dean’s weight in his arms, leaning himself backward so Dean wouldn’t collapse into the window.  
Now Dean was just fucking himself on Castiel, arm sliding up to cup the back of Castiel’s head, carding through the shorter hair near his neck. He kissed Castiel, head back on his shoulder.  
“Almost, Cas - I’m alm- most - ohJesusCas, yes! _CAS_ ―”  
Dean spilled a long string of white, Castiel watching as it propelled in spurts into the air, tumbling in tiny beads and lines of liquid to the floor. Dean trembled weakly in his arms, hand sweating on Castiel's neck.  
Castiel kissed him, deeply, tongue tasting his mouth from behind. Dean whispered something into his mouth that he didn’t catch, only pulling his lips in a tighter kiss, then a peck, then another, before letting Dean stand up, knees wobbling.  
Dean turned around, face wrecked with lust, eyes as dark as night, cheeks and lips filled with a blush that descended his whole body, all of his skin flushed and glowing with pleasure.  
“I’m gonna make you come, Cas,” he promised, closing the distance between them and pulling Castiel into the most heated kiss he had ever experienced, it was like he was swallowed by the sun.  
Dean was so wet, and tender, and so soft against him, the way he rolled his whole body against him like it was putty, like he had nothing so constricting as a skeleton. He was a molten metal, carving himself against Castiel’s skin.  
Dean’s hand splayed over Castiel’s lower back again, slipping over his buttocks, pulling and massaging at his flesh, rolling him into Dean’s palm in a way that tugged at Castiel’s lower parts, all of him tingled by it.  
“Come for me, Cas,” he whispered, lips on Castiel’s lips, nose against his nose, forehead against his own.  
“I - can’t―”  
“Jizz on me. Come all over me.”  
“I’m not―”  
“Fucking _come_ against me. I wanna taste it. I want to lick it off my skin.”  
“Dean―”  
“Come on, Cas. Almost there.”  
Castiel whimpered, not even able to touch himself as Dean was pressed right up against him, Dean expecting him to come just from his growled words, his deep voice, his insanely gruff timbre that vibrated against Castiel’s spine when he moaned into his kiss.  
“Orgasm. Do it. Just come for me.”  
Castiel couldn’t help mewling, nudging his nose into Dean’s cheek, wanting so badly to reach his peak, now, right now...  
“Hey, Cas?”  
“Y-yes, Dean?”  
Dean locked his eyes to Castiel’s, and slipped downward, bodies sliding and stuttering together as Dean lowered himself to his knees. He was kneeling upright, knees, calves and feet against the floor, face in line with Castiel’s hardness, swollen and desperate for release. Castiel dared not touch, knowing Dean was going to ask for something.  
“Come in my mouth.”  
“Wh- what?”  
Dean didn’t reply, only opened his mouth, teeth hidden, lips wide. His eyes were still on Castiel’s.  
Castiel shuddered. He reached a hand for Dean’s head, fingers combing through the top of his spiky hair, stroking over him. Dean poked out his tongue and ran it over his lips, eyes darting to Castiel’s member as it pulsed, somehow closer to coming than he was before, without even the aid of a touch.  
Dean’s head rocked forward as Castiel’s hips began to stutter gently, simulating the movement of mating, of his cock inside Dean’s mouth, of Dean sucking him. No contact, only their eyes locked together, lips wet and parted.  
Castiel hummed a shaky note, eyebrows creasing. He felt orgasm rising inside him, unexpectedly. It didn’t come in surges, nor pulses, but bubbled up like a rising water well, lust and pleasure collecting inside him like rainfall.  
Dean waited, eyes never leaving Castiel’s except to watch him twitch, then back up. He closed his mouth to swallow twice, and that was when Castiel felt a throb, every time Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Castiel liked the thought that it could be his orgasm that Dean was swallowing. If only he could make it... so close.  
Dean dropped his eyes again, mouth so proximate to Castiel’s cock he could feel his breath on it, hot and damp. Dean reached out the tip of his tongue, shivering and pink. He tasted Castiel’s head, and that was the trigger. Castiel gasped Dean’s name, eyes wanting to roll back but instead locked on Dean as Dean met his gaze, his eyelids falling languidly as Castiel filled his mouth with liquid, gasping and moaning as Dean took it all, every drop.  
Castiel finished and fell to his knees, arms sliding down Dean’s, resting on his biceps, trying not to let his eyes shut, so he could watch Dean close his mouth. A tiny drop of semen was still on his lip.  
Dean swallowed.  
Castiel’s eyes tracked his throat, the way it pulled up, Adam’s apple bobbing, then the pull of Dean’s skin at his collarbone as he relaxed the muscles. Castiel flicked his eyes back to Dean’s, looking at the single drop of white that remained. Dean’s lips parted, about to swipe it inside, but Castiel leaned forward first, kissing it into his own mouth, wrapping it over his tongue, letting it spread.  
He gulped, and then he kissed Dean, tongues against each other, hot and wet and salty, hands twisting in hair, over skin, pulling Dean closer by the small of his back.  
Dean moaned, holding onto Castiel as he pushed them over, letting their combined weight fall onto the flat of Castiel’s shoulders as he knelt backwards. He let his legs slip and he fell flat onto his back, Dean curling over him, pressed down onto him.  
Their kiss was prolonged, the longest single kiss they had ever shared, not even breaking apart to turn their nose to the other side; only letting their mouths roll over each other, nudging into new positions.  
Dean eventually pulled off to let himself breathe deeply. He wriggled his nose, blinking. “Well, that was awesome.”  
Castiel grinned. “I think this room is officially safe for me to sleep in.”  
“Oh, I forgot that’s what we were doing,” Dean muttered, tilting his head and kissing Castiel again, smiling into it.  
Castiel pushed him off, chortling. “We need to clean up this mess.”  
“Aw,” Dean complained, rolling onto his back. “Now?”  
Castiel sighed, blinking tiredly. “It will dry, and it will be very hard to get out of the floor.”  
Dean only then seemed to remember the semen he’d spilled all over the floorboards, a messy patch in the sun. He looked over at it, having to peer past the crumpled, dangling white sheet between them and the window.  
“Oh, man.”  
“I will get a towel, wait here.” Castiel made to stand up, but was dragged down by a pair of strong arms and a spirited laugh.  
Dean pulled Castiel into his lap, legs sprawled together. “Give it a minute, all right? I just want to bask in this weird-ass dude-on-dude sex glow.”  
Castiel hummed amusement, but let Dean hold him, content. He felt safe, here. The horrors of this room still lingered, but the pleasures would always outshine them. The happiness was so much more powerful.  
He sighed, and lay down beside Dean on the floor. They held each other, naked and messy, for a very, very long time.  
~x~  
Castiel finished speaking and sighed, the smile never leaving his lips. Albeit, it was a sad, longing smile, but it was smile nonetheless. “We never really had another time together like that,” he said, eyes down. “We made love again, of course, but there was never that weightless feel to it; we had something hanging over our heads.”  
“What was it?”  
“In time, Sam.”  
“Why do you tell me all these little things if you’re still gonna make me wait until you get to that part?”  
Castiel’s face broke into a slightly humiliated grin. “I learned how to tease. Apparently that stuck.”  
Sam grinned, slapping his friend’s shoulder gently. He then stifled a yawn, stuffing his hand against his mouth before it broke free.  
“You are tired, Sam,” Castiel observed, looking Sam’s face up and down. “We should not sleep here, Dean won’t be able to find us in the morning.”  
“Yeah, we had a place in the forest, but it was pouring with rain, so...”  
Castiel was silent for a minute, face drawn a shade paler, and Sam knew he was thinking about the hunter who had been after Dean, knowing the wolf was Castiel’s lover. If they had stayed in the woods, they may never have found the traps, and Dean might have been gone by the morning. Then again, they might have stepped in them themselves, or heard the traps snap on Dean’s leg and then the howling cry of Castiel’s name screamed for the last time.  
Sam shook his thoughts free, patting the parcel of food by him. “We should go, I’m pretty sleepy.”  
“I as well,” Castiel admitted. “Telling stories is tiring. I am quite thirsty, now.”  
Sam smirked. “It’s raining.”  
“Of course.”  
They packed up what remained of their things, Castiel gently placing the silver ring back in Dean’s saddlebag.  
“How do you know he won’t find it in there? What if he cleans the bag out or something?”  
Castiel actually laughed at that idea. “In the time you have known Dean, or after hearing the stories I have told you about his bedroom, would you believe that in five years, he has ever cleaned out his saddlebag?”  
Sam shrugged. “Fair point.”  
They surrendered their dryness and gave it up for lost, as they stepped out into the pouring rain, heading back the same way Sam had entered the village, with Chevy leading the way. She was somewhat irked to have been woken up, but her good faith rested with the knowledge she was heading back to Dean, and would see him again in the morning as she always did.  
This part of the forest was damp and heavy with the scent of pine, and Sam found his way back to where Dean had thrust the pile of firewood, now wet and unusable. Sam sighed and sat on a log, the same one he had been sitting on when Castiel was passed to him as a bird, perching upon the leather arm protector. Sam pulled back his sleeve, looking at the leather. He could hardly see in the dark here, so instead ran his fingers over it as Castiel sat down beside him. It was detailed, a design burned or pressed into it from the underside. It was really very nice, and it was warm on his arm, which was nice, too.  
Sam yawned deeply, wishing he could see to find something soft or dry to lie on. He instead found Castiel’s shoulder, which was good enough. Castiel looked at him, then laughed quietly, settling his own head on Sam’s.  
“‘Night, Cas.”  
“I look forward to tomorrow night, Sam. Thank you for... everything.”  
Sam patted Castiel’s knee, squeezing it. “You’re welcome, buddy.”  
~  
Of course, Sam woke at the break of dawn, nearly falling on top of an unhappy hawk, lost in a tangle of the too-big tunic and trousers. Sam grunted, wrestling the bird from the cloth, letting Cas sit on the arm protector and staring bleary-eyed at him.  
“You’re grumpier as a bird,” he muttered as Castiel huffed at him, glaring.  
“Go, on, go find something to eat, or go poop or something. Do bird things.” He shook his arm, trying to get Castiel off him. It had stopped raining, now it was a fuzzy blue all around, still dark, trees dripping wetly onto the ground.  
Castiel had no intention of leaving, only staring. So Sam was forced to shoulder the weight of a heavily-muscled bird of prey while he sought a better place to sleep, finally chancing upon a fallen pine branch; wet with rain but at least free of mud and dead leaves.  
Castiel insisted on staying on his arm while he fell asleep, and that subsequently was the reason Sam woke up with a sore shoulder, an hour or so later.  
~  
“Get up, I caught you breakfast,” Dean said, toeing Sam’s hair with the point of his boot.  
“Breakf’st?” Sam grumbled, rubbing an uncoordinated hand over his face.  
“Fish.”  
“We’re in a forest.”  
Dean hummed in disagreement, kicking Sam’s leg. “Forests have lakes, lakes have fish. I think it’s trout or salmon or something.”  
Sam wriggled to his feet, rolling his stiff shoulder. The bird was gone, he was somewhat relieved to note. “You don’t have a net; what’d you do, catch it with your bare hands?”  
“Dude, I have a crossbow,” Dean sneered, sitting heavily on a log beside an orange roaring fire, which had a makeshift support over it where a speared fish was being turned on a spit. It was daylight now, a chilly morning haze breaking over damp ground.  
“You shot a fish with a crossbow?”  
“There a law against it?”  
“No, I just...” he arched his lips upward, “‘s pretty impressive, is all.”  
“I’m always impressive.”  
Sam smirked. “Cas said that too.”  
“Cas?”  
“I think he’s easily impressed, to be honest.”  
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, that’s true.”  
Sam stumbled forward, then was hit by a twinge from his bladder. “Uh, be right back,” he muttered, and vanished among the trees.  
When he came back, he was handed a stick with a cooked fish on it; he set it down for a moment as he went to go take a drink from the lake. He was a little surprised to see a lake there, given that he’d had no idea that it existed last night - but then again, it had been dark. Here, the trees petered out, and they were left in a wide expanse of grassland; mountain ranges hued pale orange in the sun. Snow was drifting down the mountainside; it was closer than Sam remembered, having seen it from a distance as they had walked yesterday. It was freezing cold now, too. Winter was well on its way.  
Sam stood up and took a deep breath. While chilly, the air was refreshing. He felt overly aware of his nose, and how cold it was.  
“Would you look at that,” Dean said suddenly, in awe of something out over the lake. He stood beside Sam, staring at the other side of the gigantic mirror.  
Sam followed his gaze, and realised what Dean was looking at.  
Castiel had his wings fully spread, gliding in the sun; he crossed the field beyond the lake, a swift a blur of brown, moving through the air so very gracefully. Turning on an air drift, he began to head straight for Dean and Sam, flying low over the water.  
His wings tipped and he dropped lower, only inches from the surface of the lake; his reflection looked like another pair of wings under him. He screeched, long and sharp, beak gleaming yellow in the sun. The tips of his wings dragged the water, so controlled in his glide that he was in no danger of falling in, simply enjoying himself.  
He looked exquisite. He was moving in the most elegant way that Sam had ever seen him move, bird or human. Flying was clearly what Castiel was meant to be doing.  
Dean laughed, raising an arm as a perch as Castiel got closer, rising from the lake with a single flap and upward angle of his wings. Castiel flapped again and bypassed Dean with a chirp, and Sam threw an arm up to protect himself as the hawk bore down on him, talons outstretched.  
Sam let out a desperate puff of air as he realised Castiel had only perched on him, sitting calmly on his arm and staring at him. Sam blinked, mouth gaping. Dean frowned and looked exceedingly critical of Castiel’s choice of perch.  
“He only did that ‘cause you’re the one with an arm protector,” Dean reasoned. He sounded quite bitter, and Sam grinned.  
“Or he just likes me better.”  
He realised a second later that he’d said the wrong thing, because Dean turned away, shoulders slumped, giving up without a fight.  
“What did you and him do last night?” Dean asked, tone resigned.  
Sam gulped, going to sit on a log, picking up his fish, managing only a bite of it before Castiel stole a gigantic chunk and stood on one leg to hold it to his beak while he pecked at it.  
“Uh, we... talked, mostly. He told me more about your time together.”  
“That it?”  
“Um. No.” Sam turned away from Castiel and scoffed the rest of his fish in one hurried mouthful before the bird could pinch any more.  
“Then...?”  
Sam chewed, swallowing far too quickly and choking. Castiel headbutted him and Sam coughed a last time, distracted by the feathery _poc_ he’d felt on his face. “Uh, thanks, Cas.”  
Castiel chirruped, blinking those beady blue eyes of his.  
Sam sighed, realising Dean was sitting across from him and waiting for him to speak. “I taught him how to dance, and then there was a horseman in the village, he was trying to kill you, so Cas took Chevy and chased him and killed him with a trap, and then we ate some food, then came out here and went to sleep.” He coughed again weakly when he finished speaking.  
Dean’s face ran through range of expressions, most of them horrified. “You took him to the village?”  
“Um, it was dryer there, and we needed food.”  
Dean chewed his lip, feet tapping worriedly. “You let him wander off...”  
“I couldn’t exactly stop him, he grabbed the horse and bolted―”  
“And you... danced with him?” Dean’s head was down now, voice quieter.  
Sam sank down, hiding behind the gigantic bird on his arm. “He was kinda crap at first, but he got it in the end.”  
Dean huffed, turning his head away. He looked quite woebegone. “You know I haven’t seen him, in five years...”  
“Yeah, I know that,” Sam said.  
“And I haven’t talked to him, or had anyone who can tell me what he’s been doing. What he looks like now, anything. Every minute you spend with him... Hell, I’m jealous.” He looked annoyed that he had to admit that. But yes, it was true, Sam could see how true it was.  
“I’m sorry.”  
Dean shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m glad he’s got someone.”  
“He misses you, you know. Like, really, really badly. He hadn’t smiled for years, his face was so empty. But when he was talking about you, he just, kind of... I dunno, he lit up. His eyes were a little brighter, and he smiled. He laughed when he thought about the things you did together.”  
Dean was listening intently to Sam’s every word, and Sam was inspired, and kept going. Dean and Castiel had the same reaction to hearing about each other, and Sam grinned, setting the bird to one side so he could see Dean clearly.  
“Every time he thought about how you smell, he kept closing his eyes and pausing, remembering it. He, uh, bit his lip every time he thought about when you kissed, touched his face every time he told me that’s what you did. It’s like he can... still feel you near him.”  
Sam looked across at the other man, watching as his eyes moved behind closed lids, imagining Castiel doing as Sam described.  
“He kept going into really gross detail, too. God, I couldn’t make him _stop_.”  
Dean laughed, opening his eyes. “What’d he tell you?”  
Sam shook his head gently. “I thought you didn’t want me to know all these things. If you knew how much I know, you’d probably never talk to me again, let alone tell me the next part of the story.”  
Dean shrugged, hands in his lap. “Eh, you never know. I might feel more generous today.”  
Sam rolled his eyes, smirking. “Okay, well, he told me, um, _exactly_ how you swallowed - uh - his... uh.” Sam winced, scrubbing his free hand through his hair. “God, it’s too much. Ew. I wanna wipe my brains out.”  
Dean scoffed, biting his bottom lip, eyes to the ground. “He seriously told you that?”  
Sam sighed, lips in a line. “I wish he didn’t. But he just kept friggin’ - _talking_. He got so excited, he was pacing around at one point. He cried when he told me you just lay there with him when he was upset, and cuddled him.” Sam shot Dean a soft glance, trying to somehow say, 'I can really see how much you love him, so please don’t get embarrassed’.  
Of course, Dean snorted. “Guys don’t cuddle.”  
“Knock it off, Dean. Guys can do what they want with other guys. You’re kind of proof of that.” Dean swallowed his retort, hand on his head. Sam looked over at him damningly. “Seriously, I’d have expected you to have gotten over your whole ‘guys don’t do that’ thing by now.”  
“Old habits die hard,” Dean muttered. He looked up at Castiel where he preened himself on Sam’s arm, shivering as he nibbled at his own feathers with his head curved over his back. Dean took a breath and sighed.  
“You know that hawks and wolves mate for life?” Dean said, words soft like they were lined with velvet, but drenched in a pool of discontent. “I don’t know why we’re a hawk and a wolf, rather than, say, a duck and a frog, but... I guess it’s kinda fitting. How we found each other, in a world of lonely people, and we had to be the two who got found out, and cursed for being what we were.”  
“Which was...?” Sam expected ‘sinners’, or perhaps ‘both men’, but he got something more specific.  
“In _love_. Hopelessly and ridiculously.”  
An admittance on Dean’s part, as he’d never said it aloud, neither in his nor Castiel’s stories so far, nor in retrospect as Dean narrated. Dean had never spoken the words, even though Castiel had claimed so many times that they were there, under the surface of his thoughts.  
Dean pressed both hands to his face, fingers curled against his eyes. He sighed, then dropped his fists, eyes a little watery. “Next time you’re with him, when you talk to him... tell him I love him. Please.”  
“You never said it to him, did you? Not to his face.”  
Dean scrunched his eyes up and winced, an expression of regret. He shook his head. “I thought about it so much, every time I was with him, I watched him when he was turned away, and I was just going, in my head, over and over - I love you, I love you, I wanna say it but I’m scared, please get how much I love you.”  
Sam swallowed, wilting. This really was a pathetic way to be in love; always thinking but never doing. Dean was always a leap-head-first guy, and this was the one thing he couldn’t do. It was fated to be so, really. When it really mattered, Dean hung back.  
“In that case,” Sam said, nodding to himself, “I’m not gonna tell him. The first time he hears it, it’s gonna be from you.”  
Dean snorted. “Hello, _curse_.”  
“We’re gonna break this dumb curse, okay? Then you can tell him. You look at his stupid face and you spit out those dumb stupid words, okay?”  
Dean tried to object but found himself nodding gently. “‘kay.” He sat on his hands.  
Sam smirked victoriously.  
“Sam, one more question,” Dean said, nodding upward. Sam hummed a note of inquiry, and Dean continued, “What does he look like now? Like, what’s his hair doing, or - does he still have that perma-stubble stuff? It’s like he never shaved, but the damn thing never grew. It was freaky-ass, but eh,” Dean shrugged, “kinda sexy on him.”  
Sam grinned. “Yup, still rocking the stubble. He said he gets older though. He looks about your age, no way he’s still twenty-six. You’re, what, thirty now?”  
“Thirty-one,” Dean said, nodding. “Fuck, I missed the hottest years of his life. He’s gonna be all pruney when I get back to him.”  
Sam shook his head. “No, he’s still - I mean, objectively, he’s still kinda... _hot_. He’s got this one scar, right through his stubble, actually. Like a line,” he demonstrated, running a finger between his lip and his chin. “It’s off-pink, like a claw went through it. I guess Cupid missed that one.”  
Dean blinked a few times, frown forming between his brows. “A scar?”  
Sam nodded. “He’s still skinny - hella muscled though - sort of, well-packed; all flat around the middle.” Sam snorted. “Um, hair under his arms.”  
Dean huffed sharply, but then held up a hand to stop Sam talking. “The scar on his face. How... how recent is that?”  
Sam looked at him sideways, unsure why Dean was so focused on it. “Maybe a few years? I don’t really know, I’m not an expert on scars.”  
“Is there... any chance it could’ve been made by a big, sort of, animal claw? Wolf, maybe?”  
Now Sam understood. “Yeah, actually.” He nodded, subdued. “That’s the only thing I can think of with claws that size.”  
Dean stood up and walked away, hands in fists, swinging them at his sides, pumping out some nervous energy. Sam heard a stream of expletives drifting from his turned back, and he looked down at Castiel as the bird watched Dean freak out.  
“Guess he didn’t know he did that to you,” Sam said softly, stroking Castiel’s back. Castiel ruffled his feathers. “‘s gotta suck, not remembering half your life.”  
Dean stood still, a good many feet away from Sam, looking out over the lake with a hand over his face. As Sam watched, he crumpled on himself, falling to his knees. He was crying, Sam could see him shaking.  
Sam lowered his eyes and continued stroking the bird. Castiel never looked away from Dean, not until Dean came back a long while later, face freshly washed with lake water, wiping it on his sleeve.  
Dean plonked himself down on the log opposite Sam, and Sam said nothing.  
Dean sniffed.  
“Where did Cas get to last night, with your story?” His voice sounded normal, if a bit forced.  
Sam met his eyes then. “The bit when you swallowed his God-knows-what is where he left off. You cuddled on the floor and then he stopped.”  
“We didn’t _cuddl_ ―”  
“Shut up, you cuddled. Accept it and move on.”  
Dean ground his teeth, smiling a tiny bit. “Fine. Uh, let’s see... That was the time with the sheet on the ceiling, right?”  
Sam nodded, concerned that there were other times that Dean swallowed semen. He did _not_ want to know about the other times.  
“All right. After that. We must’ve cleaned up, it was kind of blurry. There’s this haze of sex, and then it’s all...” he made a hissing, crackling noise, like water in the spit of a fire. “It was good, I remember it being good. Man, that was one of the best screws I ever had. _The_ best, maybe.”  
“Dude, I don’t need to know. Please, Dean, lay off the details. Just put out the facts, quit with the sex talk.”  
Dean shrugged expressively, drawing his shoulders up and shoving them back down as if to shake away the thoughts that were building. “Fine, bitch.”  
Sam scowled, then half-smiled. “Jerk.”  
~x~  
“Did you get it?”  
Dean wobbled precariously, arm stretched up. “Hang on, almost―”  
Castiel steadied his hands on Dean’s hips, thumb smoothing over his skin as Dean reached to replace the white sheet on the ceiling. He slipped the cloth ends between the others, making sure it would hold, before dropping his arm with a sigh of relief. He made to move forward, and jump off the dressing table, but Castiel held him back, eyes on Dean’s as he pulled his shirt up and kissed his abdomen.  
Dean laughed, petting Castiel’s head from above. “Dude, if you blow me from here, I’m gonna break this table. Which would be hard to fix.”  
Castiel took the hint and let Dean jump down, wrapping his arms around him from behind instead, pressing his nose into Dean’s neck. “Blow?”  
“Oral sex.”  
“Oh, with the sucking.”  
Dean rolled back into him, finally pulling out of his embrace. “Yeah, with the sucking.” He kissed Castiel, smiling happily. The smile he wore when he was around Castiel never seemed to stop, he barely even noticed it any more. His face seemed permanently stuck like that, and he wasn’t about to complain.  
“Okay, Cas. Enough, man. I gotta get back to training, I’ve been here God knows how many hours. My troupe is pathetic, they need me.”  
Castiel smirked against Dean’s lips. “Dean Winchester to the rescue.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
Their lips smacked for a moment longer, Castiel’s eyelids tickling on Dean’s cheek. Dean moaned under his breath and pushed Castiel away. “I’ll come back this evening, okay? Stay outta trouble till then.” He paused. “You’re gonna be fine on your own, right? I mean...” he suddenly felt very worried, “The Priestess isn’t coming back tonight, is she?”  
Castiel shook his head. “She usually lets me know when she’s coming, and she hasn’t sent a message. Gabriel gets that job, mostly.”  
“Gabriel, Messenger of God. Pff, she has a wicked sense of humour.”  
“Yes, I did think that.” Castiel pressed his lips in a line and rested his gaze on Dean’s slightly crumpled shirt, straightening it for him. “Dean, I did want to...”  
“Hm?”  
“I don’t think you should be sleeping here. Not every night.”  
“What? Oh, come on―”  
“No, Dean, please listen. I don’t want to say it, because I want to spend my time with you, of course I do. But should we continue to meet in the way we do now, someone is going to find out what we do together. Someone who we would rather didn’t know. You don't think the fact that you are never in your room at night could give something away?"  
Dean scoffed. “The Priestess thinks I have a girlfriend, I’ll just put about that I’m with her all the time.”  
“Start a rumour?”  
Dean nodded. “Nobody’ll get it, I swear.”  
Castiel pulled away from the kiss that Dean tried to push on him. “No, Dean. Despite what you’re saying... you always brought women to your own room, didn’t you?”  
Dean considered Castiel’s shifting eyes, and nodded slowly. “I never usually took them anywhere else. Mostly they came to me, actually.”  
Castiel sighed, eyes closed. “Then someone will work it out. Believe me, someone will become curious - Gordon, maybe, as he already has an inkling of your exploits. You will be followed, or people will take wagers on your lover’s name... when they find out it’s me...” Castiel sighed softly. “You must stay in your own room, at least every few nights. You need to be seen around that part of the castle. Don’t arouse suspicion.”  
Dean knew he was right. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling’s draped sheets and grumbled, nodding. “Fine. _Fine_.” He poked Castiel in the chest with a finger as he moved away. “But I’m _not_ happy.”  
Castiel smiled. “Neither am I, and I will take your unhappiness as a compliment.”  
“You better,” Dean said, heading for the door. “So, wait - is this goodnight?”  
Castiel glanced at the window behind them, seeing the sunlight still bright in the sky. “Late afternoon, but... yes. I think you should spend time with your friends. Have a drink with Gordon or something.”  
Dean pursed his lips. “Whatever you say, honey.”  
“I thought I was cherry pie.”  
Dean grinned again, headbutting Castiel gently. “Shuddup. ‘Night, Cas.”  
They shared a final kiss, hands intertwined, then Dean pulled away. He walked backwards to the door, eyes on his fallen angel, still smiling. He closed the arch door behind him, hearing one last word from Castiel. “Goodnight.”  
~  
Dean headed straight for the kitchens. He may have skipped a little, lighter on his feet than he usually felt. Possibly, he was also humming.  
“Well, aren’t you in good spirits,” Missouri observed, eyebrows raised at him as he swung in through the kitchen door, hands on the door jamb.  
Dean actually laughed at that, falling off the door and swaying upright. He glanced at the half-full kitchen, now filled with people cleaning dishes and getting ready to serve up an evening meal. He kept his voice low as he walked beside Missouri towards the back table, feet swinging as he stepped. “Yeah, well. Me ‘n Cas...”  
“Oh, don’t I know,” she said, voice above a whisper but only loud enough for Dean to hear. “The smell of that bedroom is all over your aura, sweetheart.”  
Dean slumped into the wicker chair, chin in his hands as he smirked. “Aura’s not the only thing it’s all over.”  
Missouri shook her head knowingly. “What was it you wanted to see me about, honey?”  
Dean dropped his hands, good mood abating. He flicked a tongue over his lips quickly. “Cas ain’t safe. He says he is, but he’s lying. I can’t tell when someone’s lying like he can, not with his freaky angel powers, but I could still see it,” Dean poked two fingers towards his eyes, gesturing to Missouri, “in his eyes. He’s scared, like, really friggin’ scared.” He swallowed hard, his former cheer all but a thin line at the bottom of his stomach.  
“She’s going to hurt him,” Missouri gathered from Dean. It wasn’t a psychic premonition, but a conclusion from the facts.  
Dean put a hand over his mouth and leaned on his elbow. “Yeah.”  
Missouri looked Dean over sadly, and Dean knew she saw tears in his eyes, even if he tried to blink them away. He got way too emotional over this stupid angel. Fallen angel. Whatever.  
The kitchen’s resident cat, a plump calico, meandered past Dean’s legs, brushing up against him. Dean glanced at her, then lifted her up onto his lap and absent-mindedly ran a hand down her back as she nudged him with her wet nose.  
Dean sighed and continued talking. “He didn’t even let me see him earlier, Anna said he was hurt pretty bad.”  
He leaned back in his chair, wary eyes on the other cooks who were busy doing their thing. Steam was being emitted by all manner of things, pouring over the ceiling, so a cloud was forming over the whole room.  
Dean tickled the cat behind the ears and watched her close her eyes happily. “The Priestess is too powerful for even Gabriel. He got Cupid from the infirmary and ran past the Guard courtyard, jabbering something about her taking control of his sword... I couldn’t leave right away, I let Anna go ahead first, but when I got there...” He buried his face in his hands, knocking the cat to the floor. “Cas’d been crying, and had something washed off him, he was soaking wet. I think he’d been bleeding, there was a massive pool of it on the floor.” Dean mentally thanked Gabriel for cleaning that up before he left, Dean might have puked if he’d looked at it any longer. Watching blood pouring from battle wounds was nothing compared to seeing the insides of your loved ones spilled out over the ground.  
Missouri’s hand found Dean’s back, and rubbed it gently. Dean kept his eyes on the little cat, who stalked off into the chaos of the kitchen, tail held high.  
“Hey, Missouri?” Dean turned his head to her, gulping his feelings down. “Would it be too much to ask if you could keep an eye on him? Just, make sure he’s okay when I can’t be there?”  
Missouri nodded, dark lips turning into a kind smile. “Of course, honey. Anything.”  
Dean breathed a small sigh of relief. “Ugh, sorry. I’m getting upset over noth―” He broke off and shook his head. “It’s not nothing. It’s gross, and sick, and _fuck_. It’s gotta be stopped. I have a lifetime of fighting skills and I can’t even wrap my head around working out how to rescue someone from someone else.”  
“You’ll figure it out, sweetheart.” Missouri stroked his hair back. “You will. Soon, actually. I wouldn’t worry.”  
“About Cas or about worrying about Cas?”  
“The latter.”  
Dean smiled weakly. “Thanks.”  
“Go talk to Andy over there, I think he can help you with another problem you’re having.”  
Dean glanced over at the bustle of the kitchen and landed his eyes upon the skinny young man who was purposefully avoiding doing anything by standing right in the middle, moving around other people as they walked past, and in doing so, keeping on his toes, so it looked like he was active.  
Dean grinned. “Nice avoidance work, I like him.”  
“He’s also particularly skilled at poking at the edges of people’s minds. Putting things in there that shouldn’t be there normally.”  
Dean nodded. “Telepath?”  
Missouri nodded her head sideways. “You could say that. He’s in need of practice, and, well...” she laughed softly, eyes closing for a second, “Her Grace, the High Priestess, she’s his favourite subject.”  
“Any way he could get stuff _out_ of her? Like the psychopathic need to hurt my - uh, Cas?”  
Missouri pushed her bottom lip up regretfully. “Afraid not, but he’s working on it.”  
Dean nibbled on his lip, then stood up. “I’m gonna go ask him about something. Um, thanks for the advice. And everything.”  
“You’re welcome, honey.” She touched his hand, squeezing. “You take good care of your fallen angel, I’ll send him up some food and company later this evening.”  
“Company?”  
“Pamela wanted to see him to explain a thing or two. I think she has a gift.” She tilted her head and smiled. “Now, go! Shoo. Go do your thing.”  
Dean nodded and hurried away, crossing the paths of people with their arms full, darting around bobbing heads and a few slopping pots. “Hey - hey, kid.”  
Andy turned around to look at Dean, both of them distracted for a second by a plate of hors d'oeuvres that went past on a silver tray, and they both grabbed a morsel before the tray left their sight. Dean grinned as he caught Andy’s eye, and they simultaneously threw their food into their mouths, chewing.  
“You got a minute?” Dean asked, mouth full on one side. He ducked when a black-haired man yelled “Coming through!” as he swished a terracotta plate over his head.  
Andy swallowed his food and shrugged. “Depends what for. If you’re selling something, I’d say yeah, but I have better stuff at my place. Trade?”  
Dean gaped like a fish for half a second before shaking his head. “Not selling, not buying either. It’s about a - whoops―” he stepped backwards to avoid a wooden cart that was pushed through the aisle they stood in, almost crashing into a cross-looking woman who was standing behind him. “Sorry. Uh, it’s about a friend of mine.”  
“The dude with the intense eye staring?” Andy asked, pointing between his eyes and Dean’s in an indicative manner. “Feels like he’s doing something nasty to your insides?”  
Dean squinted. “I guess that fits the description. Name’s Dean. Winchester.” He held out a hand, and Andy took it, raising their handshake in an arch as a man with an armful of plates passed through.  
“Wanna go somewhere less busy?” Andy suggested, already heading for the door.  
Dean sneaked a pâté-topped cracker and followed him, crunching as he went.  
They stepped out into the daylight, Dean suddenly feeling lighter now that the humid kitchen was behind him. They stood together a few feet from the kitchen door, the warm sun to Dean’s left, low in the sky.  
“I hear you’re good with mind control,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You need a job?”  
Andy scoffed, pouty lips pulling into a tight, amused smile. “Job? Nah. I have all I need, man. Everything. I don’t get paid, but I got a roof over my head - Missouri puts me up, and she feeds me, and doesn’t care that I have no clue what I’m doing.”  
Dean took a deep breath. “What, you never thought about becoming a useful member of society?”  
Andy grinned, short dark curls of hair inching up his forehead as he thought about it. “Nah.”  
Dean pouted, secretly impressed. The idea itself was a luxury, to never have to answer to anyone. No responsibility. Lazy people were not the kind of people he ever thought he would appreciate, but to have someone know what they had was good, and have no inclination to change it, never asking for more... Not bad at all.  
“You know what? I actually respect that,” Dean said, surprised.  
“Sweet. Hey, so. What was your issue?”  
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Pff, no end of those. But, yeah. One in particular. I have this thing, that the Priestess took from Cas. I’m looking to get it back.”  
“As in, steal, or by legal measures?”  
“Steal.”  
Andy’s eyes rolled into the distance while he thought. “Okay, first?” He raised a finger in the air. “Hell yeah, I’m in, because I’ve been inside that bitch’s head, and it does not make for pleasant scenery. Second,” he dropped the finger, then spread open hands toward Dean and beckoned, “what’dya want from me. Lay it on me.”  
Dean smirked. He liked how this guy talked, not a care in the world. Despite the man being a few years younger than himself, he was pretty much what Dean aspired to be. That level of laid-backness was what he wanted from life. Clearly, Dean was in the wrong line of work.  
“Okay, I need to know her daily schedule. Like, what time she’s in and out of her room, where she goes, how long it takes her to get from place to place. Particularly when it’s safe to break into her room.”  
“We talking full on bash-everything and run, ransack, or sneaky little ditties?”  
“Sneaky. We’re just after one thing. She can’t know we’ve been there. All I need from you right now is the schedule. How soon can you manage a full day’s run?”  
Andy nodded deeply. “Apart from Sundays, as far as I can tell, her line is pretty much the same, up around seven, breakfast in her room, then does Priestess stuff down in the chapel or in the gardens. I’ve been in her head for days on end, but I still can’t work out what she actually does. It’s like she just _makes_ people do whatever she wants, for her, not for the city. Pretty sure nobody’s running the city at all.”  
“All right, neat, we have half already,” Dean muttered, nodding and thinking.  
“What are you after, by the way?” Andy raised a quick hand, “Not gonna blab, swear on my brother’s grave. Wouldn’t miss being part of this for anything.”  
“Uh,” Dean licked his lips. “Perfume. Small bottle, about yay big.” He demonstrated with his hands.  
“This Cas guy, the friend she stole it off... he is a dude, right?” Andy turned a curious glance Dean’s way.  
“Heh.” Dean grinned. “Missouri clued you in on a lot of this stuff with me and Cas, right?”  
Andy stared at Dean for a moment, then blinked. “OH.” He shrunk back a tiny bit, then leaned forward with a grin. “So you’re the dude Cas fell in love with? Oh my God, that’s _scandalous_ , that is.” Andy slapped Dean on the arm. “It’s cool, dude. It’s weird, but hey, this kitchen’s full of freakin’ weirdos, one extra with an aversion to women isn’t a big leap.”  
Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No - no, I like women.”  
“I mean the other dude. Your Cas guy.”  
“He doesn’t like women? ...At all?”  
Andy frowned at him, still grinning. “You didn’t work that out from the fact he was doing serious Hell time with you?”  
Dean blinked, his focus on the washerwoman who sauntered past with a basket on her hip. “I guess I didn’t actually think about it.”  
“Angel only has eyes for you, Captain.”  
Dean nodded, gaze on the ground now, scuffing his boot through the dust. He could still smell the kitchen and all its delicious aromas, carried out with the steam.  
“You’re kind of good together, actually,” Andy continued, staring at Dean’s face. “He was so freaked out that you didn’t like him, and then, poof! Turns out you’re ready to risk life and limb over a bottle of girly perfume for him.”  
“It wasn’t _girly_ ,” Dean scowled. “It was kinda bittersweet, masculine, probably. I dunno, I only ever smelt it on his skin, and...” He let out a breath through his open mouth, then bit his lower lip, realising he was getting turned on by just the thought of it. “It rocked, okay?”  
Andy nodded, eyes a tiny bit mocking. “Take your word for it.”  
“Could I check back in, say, a day from now? Tomorrow.”  
Andy pursed his lips, nodding. “Yeah, should be more specific by then. I’ll focus on her room. Try and see what’s in there.”  
“You can do that?”  
“Hell yeah. I’m awesome.”  
Dean laughed. “Gotta say, kid. It’s not a stretch.” He slapped Andy on the shoulder and made to leave. “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
“Gotcha, Captain!” Andy saluted as Dean walked away.  
~x~  
Dean interrupted himself to grapple his crossbow out of Sam’s hands. “Not like that! Jesus, Sammy!”  
Sam dropped his hands away and let Dean take it back, resetting all the thingamajigs. Sam had no idea what they all did, but they were clearly dangerous.  
“You’ll take your hand off like that. Here, hold it like this.” Dean shouldered the crossbow with one hand underneath and one hand behind, perfectly balanced from years of practice. Then he turned to aim down into the water, arrowhead beneath the surface, away from the line of their toes as they stood together in the frigid lake.  
Dean was silent and still for a second, then let an arrow loose, sending it cutting through the surface with a _slish_ sound. He rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the water, dragging out a flailing fish, speared right through the middle. He grinned, and half-turned and tossed it back on land. It flopped a few times on the ground before it stilled.  
“I think you should do it, I’m gonna mess up,” Sam said, not unhappy about that at all.  
Dean shrugged, and aimed the same arrow again, waiting until a fish swam into his sights.  
“Okay, so what next?” Sam asked, hands on his hips as he watched Dean concentrate. “You were planning to steal perfume back, then what?”  
Dean pursed his lips, eyes skimming the depths of the clear water, seeing barely any movement. “Eh, the rest of that day was pretty crap. I mean, it was all Guard training.”  
“You didn’t enjoy that at all? Not even with the fighting?”  
Dean shrugged one shoulder, careful not to move the crossbow. “I only found it fun when it was one-on-one, or when I was by myself. The best times were fighting Anna or Gabe, because it wasn’t serious, you know?”  
“Yeah.”  
“There was that one kid, Rat...” Dean trailed off.  
After a few more seconds of silence, Sam prompted, “Yeah. The prison guard.”  
Dean sighed, slumping his crossbow down to his side, giving up and trailing the unhitched arrow through the water on his other side. “He wasn’t meant for that. He was a great fighter. Just with a sword though, not in a fight. He never really got the hang of combat, he was too polite.”  
“So he did join up, then.”  
“What?”  
“You missed out the part when he joined the Guard. Last time you mentioned him, his brother Walt was messing with him.”  
Dean scoffed, stepping out of the water with heavy, cold legs. Sam followed, wishing his trousers weren’t so wet now. “How do you remember all this crap, Sam? Me and Cas have been talking for days, we’ve told you a ton of stuff, and you remember all these little details.”  
Sam shrugged and sat down, reaching for a knife to start gutting the fish. It was the same knife he and Dean had shaved with earlier, so Sam vowed to wash it really well after - he didn’t want to smell like fish all day next time.  
“I have a good memory, and I like reading. I notice the little things, they’re usually the most interesting.”  
Dean nodded, obviously trying hard not to interfere with Sam’s gutting technique, a shivering hand halfway out to him, continuously pulling it back. “That why you noticed the hair under Cas’ arms?” he grinned. “Thought it was weird. Guys don’t usually notice that sort of thing about other guys.”  
Sam smirked. “I saw him putting a tunic over his head, that was it. I didn’t watch him or anything.”  
“Nah,” Dean shook his head, “didn’t think that. Far as I’ve ever seen, me ‘n Cas are the only guys in the whole damn world who had the balls to look at each other like that, let alone get together.”  
“And look where that got you,” Sam muttered, good naturedly. He passed Dean the first two fish, glancing up as Dean skewered them and hung them over the fire. Sam stuck his legs nearer, noticing that his wet trousers were steaming from the heat.  
“I guess there must be other people out there,” Dean shrugged, wiping his hands on each other, pointlessly, “just people keep it quiet, since, well, _this_ is where it gets you. Cursed. Or worse. People probably die over this kind of thing.”  
“It is weird, Dean.” Sam gutted the last fish, flinging it to Dean. “It’s not normal. I mean, not just that you have another guy for a lover, but that you did all this stuff with him. It wasn’t just, run-of-the-mill, meet a pretty girl at work, settle down with a bunch of kids, except he’s a dude. I mean, it turned into a whole _thing_. You had... sex. And a whole life revolving around this crap. And enough story to take up days of my life, before you even got to the part with the curse.” Sam sighed, looking Dean in the eye. “It’s a big deal, is what I’m saying.”  
“Yeah.” Dean nodded, setting the last of the fish on the fire, turning the first. “I know it is.”  
Sam watched the fish skin bubble and hiss as it began to cook. Castiel had long since flown away, off doing his own thing. He’d be back before long, probably when the fish was cooked. He had an uncanny knack for knowing when food was around.  
“So the rest of that day.”  
Dean licked his lips, smiling now. He leaned back on his log, wanting to slap his hands on his knees but avoiding it since they were fishy. “After training I went back to my room.”  
“You know Cas said to me, he never wanted to sleep without you again.”  
Dean stopped his train of thought to look up at Sam. “He did?”  
“He never felt safer, or warmer, or more... loved, I guess.”  
Dean swallowed, eyes on the fire. He sucked on his lower lip. “It kind of killed me as much as it probably killed him to sleep apart that night, then. It was the first time, since we got together. I hated it. God, I couldn’t sleep. It was kinda dumb. When Cassie wasn’t around, I could sleep without her, if she worked late or was out of town or something. But, Cas.” Dean shook his head, turning the fish again. “I missed how he smelled, the snuffly noises he made when I touched his skin when he was asleep.”  
“You touched him when he was asleep?” Sam asked, screwing up his face.  
“Not like _that_ , I just mean... like, when I put my hand on his back to pull him closer. He was so warm, and he automatically wrapped his legs around me. I think he secretly had a foot thing, he kept rubbing his feet against mine.” Dean huffed a laugh at the thought.  
“But I had nightmares that night, for the first time since before my fight against Raphael. I actually remember what happened in these ones - it was all blood, and Cas lying in the middle of it, Meg standing there with his perfume, stealing his blood and putting it in the perfume.” Dean sighed, almost putting a hand to his head before remembering the fish and pulling away.  
“Just really horrible nightmares. I’d had worse, way worse, but these... they weren’t scary, not in theory. But I woke up in a cold sweat, almost in tears.”  
Sam eyed him sympathetically. He’d had his fair share of nightmares, but rarely about the people he loved being hurt. He turned the fish again so Dean didn’t have to, while he was lost in thought.  
“I never _cried_ over anyone as much as I cried over Cas. Maybe my parents, but, that was different. That was the loss talking, that feeling of having something taken away and knowing you’ll never have it back. Skipping forward, to this curse - it’s taking something away and knowing it might be possible to have it back, but never being certain. And to get it back, I gotta do something terrible.”  
Dean looked so desperate as he put his face in his hands, he forced himself to curl his hands into fists. “I gotta kill someone, in cold blood. Just go right up to her, stab her.”  
Sam frowned. “You know there’s a better way, Dean.”  
“Shut up, I’m not letting you talk me into this. Not right now.”  
Sam sighed irritably and gave up. For now.  
“I guess it’s not so much cold blood, though,” Dean continued. “Meg did terrible things to Cas. Some of them, a lot of them, I don’t know about. I don’t know if it ever went beyond physical, with all the cutting and slicing and―” Dean ground his teeth, “making him bleed like that. I know she upset him, every single time, but... I don’t wanna say it could have been worse. But it could have been. A lot worse. God, so much worse.”  
Sam blinked, watching the fish drip oil into the fire, sending hissing missiles out into the air.  
“I’m not saying Cas had it easy. He never did.”  
Sam nodded gently, not speaking, letting Dean talk instead.  
Dean was silent for a while, then he leaned forward and unhooked the first fish, handing it to Sam, who took it. It was still too hot to eat, so he stared at its crumpled pattern of silver scales as Dean went back to thinking.  
“I woke up the next morning, and I had no idea what I was meant to do. Cas and I had no plan for the day, and he couldn’t leave his room, let alone the castle. It was then that I realised that any time I wasn’t with him, he was alone. I mean, apart from Pamela, who went to see him that last night, he had nobody to talk to. It was like the first years he was there, before he left the room and found the library and the garret and all those places he loved.”  
Dean took a fish off the fire for himself, spinning it on its stick and blowing it gently to cool it down. Sam took the first bite of his, huffing with his mouth open when it sizzled hotly on his tongue.  
“Anyway. So,” Dean sighed, shoulders heaving, “I got Chuck, that bartender’s husband - you remember, Becky?” Sam nodded. “He was hiding in that hovel of his, in the deep dark recesses of the castle. I have no idea what he was actually meant to be doing there, but he was pretty useless at it. Becky was supporting him, with money from the tavern. He technically owned it, but she ran the place. She was smarter than she acted, really. She just - heh - she talked too much.”  
Sam managed to take a proper mouthful of fish, at a moderate temperature now, but opened his eyes wide at the approaching hawk that screeched his arrival. “No - no, no, no!” Sam protested, holding an arm out as a barrier, but Castiel navigated around it and sat on the log beside Sam, craning his neck to steal a strip, guzzling it before trying for another. Sam pushed him off the log, and got a peck on the hand for his troubles. He seethed, and then graciously let Castiel take another bite, seizing a chunk in his beak and taking off again. Dean laughed.  
“Shut up,” Sam said, glaring at him.  
Dean tucked into his food, chewing and swallowing. “So I got Chuck, and he knew Cas and Death; I can’t friggin’ remember how I knew that they knew each other,” he said, shaking a hand at his head. “I think Death put some crap in there when he searched my brain, just tiny stuff like that. For God knows what reason, but hell, it was useful.  
“Then Chuck went and got Castiel’s bonsai, and I―”  
“His what?”  
“Oh, his miniature tree. I told you about that.”  
“I thought you forgot about it,” Sam admitted. “You kind of got caught up with all the other stuff.”  
“Yeah, no. He had this little tree, about the size of my forearm, look.” Dean showed Sam his forearm, then dropped it and took another bite of fish. “He promised he’d show it to me, so I figured, while he was stuck in his room, I’d take it to him. But I had no clue where it was; Chuck did.  
“I met them in Cas’ room after morning practice. I wasn’t expecting Chuck to be there still, but apparently they had a lot to catch up on.”  
“Did Cas tell him―?”  
“No, no. I mean, we both trusted him to some extent, but the less people who knew, the better. I, uh,” Dean smiled, mouth open, “I’ll chance he picked up on something though. Cas wasn’t very subtle.”  
~x~  
Dean knocked.  
“Dean?”  
“Cas, it’s me.”  
There was silence for a few seconds, before Castiel opened the door and beamed into Dean’s face, running a hand over his shoulder and screwing the collar of his shirt into his fist. He dragged him inside, teeth on his own lower lip. Was this seduction? It looked it.  
“Hey, Captain,” Chuck said from the other side of the room. Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand and pulled it off his shoulder, glancing quickly to the fallen angel’s face.  
Castiel seemed to remember himself and had the grace to look ashamed. Dean went forward to slap Chuck on the hand in a friendly handshake.  
“How’ve you been doing since this morning?”  
Chuck scratched his beard, wrinkling his nose. “I tried explaining dice games to Cas, but he doesn’t get it.”  
Castiel stepped forward, shaking his head vehemently. “There has to be something more complex that can be done with them, they are such a fantastic creation.” He sighed, concerned. “The human race always limits itself in such undesirable ways, and _that_ is what I do not understand. A simple bet on a roll of a six-sided die is a concept not lost on me.”  
“Well, good,” Dean said, patting Castiel once on the back. “‘cause it’s gosh-darned simple.”  
“We should sit,” Castiel said, collapsing onto his knees right where he stood.  
Dean glanced at the floor at his feet, smirking when he recalled the things he and Castiel had done right in this very spot yesterday. He sat beside Castiel, crossing his legs, and placed his hands on his knees. “So where’s this tree then?”  
Chuck turned around and went to the corner of the room, pulling back a white sheet and taking hold of something heavy. He frog-marched his way back to Dean and Castiel, who both reached out a helping hand to guide the plant pot to the floorboards as it reached them.  
“That’s not a tree, that’s a stick.”  
Castiel glared at Dean, twisting the heavy clay pot in its dish. “It is a bonsai tree.”  
“Bon-a-what-now?”  
“ _Bonz-eye_.”  
Chuck nodded and knelt beside the pot, handing Castiel the smallest dagger that Dean had ever seen. “It’s this pruny little thing, I’ve been looking after it while Cas has been busy the last couple days.”  
“When you say busy, you mean―”  
“Trapped in this room, four walls and a ton o’ sheets,” Chuck determined, leaning back on his hands. He looked far less drunk than usual. Maybe just tired.  
Castiel sighed, shaking his head. “She will let me out, eventually.”  
Dean only watched him sadly, thinking the exact opposite. The Priestess seemed all set to keep Castiel here for the rest of his immortal life. She didn’t have an ounce of mercy or forgiveness in her.  
Castiel nodded to the pot in front of him, indicating Dean should look. Dean frowned, only now realising there were a terrifying number of thin, pale, wormy roots protruding from all around the top of the pot. “Eugh,” he said, drawing his lips back in a grimace. “That’s disgusting.”  
Castiel looked at him disapprovingly. “Those are roots, Dean. They are the tree’s mouth.”  
Dean’s grimace furthered across his face. “That’s not creepy at all, jeez.”  
“I’m glad you changed your mind,” Castiel said.  
Chuck laughed. “He doesn’t get sarcasm still?” he asked Dean, eyes shining with mirth. “I tried to teach him that for two solid weeks and _still_ no avail.”  
“That was sarcasm?” Castiel asked him, wiping a muddy hand on his white trousers. “No, I’m afraid I still don’t understand it.”  
Chuck twitched his head toward Castiel, eyes on Dean. “Day he gets that is the day I give up drinking.”  
Dean nudged Castiel’s thigh with an open hand, casually dragging it back. “Hey, you’d better learn it quick, or Chuck’ll drink himself to his grave.”  
Castiel looked somewhat perturbed, but was distracted by the mass of earth he was pulling carefully out of the pot, solid and in the shape of the container. He set it on the wooden floor, paying no heed to the crumbling dirt that fell into the grooves in the ground.  
“What the hell is that, Cas? That’s not a real plant.”  
Castiel shook his head. “It is. It’s an ash tree.”  
“A baby one?”  
“It was a baby, when I started. It was a seed, and it grew.” He smiled. “I’d never seen one of God’s creations being made as I watched before, over years. It was incredible, the way it created itself from nothing but soil and water and sunlight. Don’t you find that incredible?” He turned to Dean, trying to keep his eyes level, but found them drifting to Dean’s lips, wanting to kiss him.  
Dean licked his own lips, realising their faces were quite close. With a glance to Chuck, Dean pulled back, eyes down. “Somethin’ outta nothin’ is always incredible.”  
Castiel nodded once, pushing the pot away so they could focus on the lump of black earth and the turmoil of roots that held it together.  
Dean picked up the tiny knife that Castiel had next to him, before Castiel got his hands on it. It was only as long as his finger, the handle just more than half the knife’s length and painted red, with golden detailing cut into the wood. The blade was square at the shoulder, a tiny guard like a wooden ring around it. The point was sharp as a needle, almost gratuitously sharp. Nothing needed to be that sharp, surely.  
Castiel carefully removed the dagger from Dean’s hand, and leant over the tree. It was a tiny sprig of a tree, more like a twig with leaves than anything else. Then again, it did look a slight more mature than a freshly-cut stick. As Dean observed, he realised it looked more like a miniaturised ash tree. A young one, yes, no more than a sapling, but strangely cute.  
“What are you doing?” Dean asked, bobbing his head so he could see Castiel’s hands. Castiel lifted his arm so he could watch.  
“If I cut the roots, the tree stays small.”  
“Isn’t that like, cutting its mouth?”  
Castiel listened to Dean’s question then looked at Chuck for an answer.  
Chuck shrugged. “They don’t feel pain like we do.”  
“But of course they do,” Castiel interrupted, looking between Dean and Chuck, eye contact intense as he focused on each of them in turn. “Plants live and breathe and feel and grow, like any other living thing.”  
“I never said they didn’t,” Chuck said, flicking one of the tree’s tiny leaves with a finger. “But they don’t start screaming if you keep them trimmed. It’s like cutting your fingernails.”  
Dean blinked, watching Castiel settle back down, unruffling.  
“Dean, would you like to try?” Castiel asked, handing Dean the knife before he spoke. “Pull the root forward gently and slice through.”  
Dean shuffled forward on his butt to get closer, not sure where to start.  
“Here,” said Castiel, taking the back of his hand with delicate fingers and guiding it to a root, his other hand wrapping around Dean’s and showing him how to hold it. “Pull it.” He glanced to Dean’s face, between his eyes and mouth. With a hint of a smile, Castiel’s lips parted slowly, and that was when Dean realised that neither of them were really paying any attention to the tree any more.  
Chuck cleared his throat, a frown creasing his almost-invisible eyebrows. “What’s up with you guys?”  
Dean sucked in a breath and let his eyes fall away from Castiel’s lips. For someone so ruffled-looking, Chuck had quite a young voice. And a curious tone; curiosity that Dean knew was dangerous.  
“Nothing, it’s nothing, what?” Dean babbled, grinning awkwardly.  
“I have been told I get too close to people when I talk,” Castiel added, knowingly.  
Chuck pressed his lips together, eyebrows still twitching. He glanced between the two men, but said nothing.  
Dean tried to turn his attention to the tree again, managing a single root, watching it flop to the ground before Castiel’s hands found his again. “Now this one,” the angel said, voice stupidly deep.  
He was doing it on purpose, Dean knew it. Goddamn tease. That was his bedroom voice.  
“Cut it, Dean. Press down.”  
Dean’s thighs trembled, but he tried his best to focus on the root, lest his hand slip and he cut himself.  
“Here, hold this.” Castiel’s pupils were dilated, Dean realised. _Don’t look at him, don’t look at him._ “Slice it, Dean. Use your hands.”  
Dean took in a shallow breath, eyes on his fingers as they shivered in Castiel’s. Castiel guided him to another root, barely looking. One of Castiel’s hands left Dean’s, sliding to his own knee, then crawling across to Dean’s with two fingers walking like legs. His hand spread out, smoothing tantalisingly slowly down Dean’s inner thigh. Dean cut another root, fingers brushing Castiel’s unnecessarily.  
“Use the―” Castiel stopped to lick his lips, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, letting it pull out, wet. “Use your weapon. Knife. Push down gently.”  
Dean throbbed. Oh God, he was hard in his trousers. He hoped the everloving fuck that Chuck couldn’t see that from where he sat opposite.  
“Uh, guys?” Chuck asked, side of one eye twitching. “Is there something I’m meant to be getting here?”  
Dean gasped at him, a thrill down his spine. This was one of the times they were right on the edge of being caught. Idiotically, just that fact was turning Dean on. “What? No. Nothing.”  
“Really? Because it looks like you two are about to―” He swallowed. “Y-you know what, never mind. It’s stupid.”  
Castiel looked back to Dean, nodding to the tree with a tip of his head. “You should trim the tree some more, Dean.”  
“Should I, now?” Dean challenged, keeping his voice quiet. Chuck could still hear, but Dean figured he could tease for a bit longer before it became too obvious.  
“You should. You should cut it swiftly, with no more force than is required. You might feel a little fluid on your hand as you cut.”  
Chuck was still squinting, and he added, speaking slowly, “Yeah, that’s tree blood.”  
Castiel’s face hardened, jaw setting. Not only at Chuck’s words, but the fact that he was speaking at all.  
“You can keep going, Cas,” Dean said, sparing a glance to another root, “I’m, uh, wide open. Spread with my branches out.” He gulped, eyes drifting to Castiel’s mouth again, enjoying the pull of his excited smile as Dean give him that image.  
“Maybe I might climb that tree,” Castiel mused, head tilting playfully. “Sit on its branches, let my guard down for a while.”  
Dean sighed, trying to ignore the strain in his trousers. “Sitting there in a summer breeze, feeling the leaves on your skin.” Dean bit his lip. He dropped his voice to such a low whisper that he knew Chuck couldn’t hear. “Let my leaves brush on you, naked, make you fucking moan.”  
Castiel whimpered, eyes falling shut.  
“Seriously, guys, am I meant to get a joke here, or...? Because, unless I’m really, ah-ha, barking up the wrong tree here, it kind of looks like you two need some alone time.”  
Dean tore his eyes from Castiel, hurriedly cutting a few more roots. “What’dya mean, alone time? That’s not - that’s not something we need.”  
Chuck eyed Dean sideways. “You realise you have a boner the size of a centennial oak, right?”  
Dean glanced down at himself, suddenly conscious of how stiff he’d gotten. Castiel sighed beside him, sucking his lips in and trying to look away.  
Chuck dropped his gaze to the bonsai, watching Dean fumble at the last few roots on this side, not yet started on the other. “Look, Cas... Dean.” Chuck looked up at the two of them, focus switching between them as he spoke. “If there’s something going on between you guys―”  
“There’s nothing going on,” Dean protested, hurriedly rotating the chunk of earth and starting on the other side. “Cas and me were just foolin’ around, ‘s all.”  
Castiel looked Chuck in the eye and nodded firmly. “Dean and I play at flirtation for amusement.”  
Chuck opened his mouth in a strange kind of awe. “Does Dean know that? Because dude, I don’t think he does. He looks pretty into it. No offence, Dean,” he added, clearly trying hard to stop his gaze from dropping between Dean’s crossed legs again, “but that’s a weird, strangely freakish thing to get excited about.”  
Dean huffed, not raising his eyes. “It’s just been a while for me, is all. ‘s nothing.” He swallowed hard, trying not to blush.  
“Uh... huh.” Chuck was unconvinced, and unsurprisingly so. “Look, have I just walked in on something I’m not meant to be seeing?”  
 _Yes._  
“No,” Castiel said. “Believe us, there is nothing strange afoot here. I have simply been away from civilisation for too consistent a time, and Dean...” Castiel glanced at Dean, who kept his head down. “Dean is excited too easily. I think he has found it harder to find female company since he became Captain.”  
Dean smirked, because hey, it wasn’t all a lie.  
Chuck dropped his pretences, and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Hey, I know this great place downtown, called the Barrel-Box Tavern. They have girls there, seriously. I mean, _ladies_. All sorts. Good with everything. Pick out what you want and drop a coin or two, and bam, you got it.”  
Dean met his eye and gaped. “Aren’t you married?”  
“What, a guy can’t check out the local talent?”  
Dean grinned. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, whacking Castiel’s chest with the back of his hand. He caught Castiel’s eye and lowered his smile to nothing, fumbling with the knife again. “Oh - ow, Jesus,” he muttered, dropping the little dagger with a clatter to the floor. “That thing is friggin’ sharp.”  
“Did you hurt yourself?” Castiel asked, hand out to take Dean’s. Dean rolled his eyes and placed his hand in Castiel’s, knowing Castiel wouldn’t back down until he did.  
“It’s a nick, it’s tiny. I’m fine.”  
Castiel disagreed, raising Dean’s cut finger to his lips, licking it with the tip of his tongue. Dean winced. “Cas, you can’t - _blood_ , man.”  
“Human saliva has healing properties,” Castiel reasoned, running the flat of his tongue up Dean’s fingertip.  
“That’s not what I - Cas, what’re you―” he couldn’t keep protesting, not when his cock had decided this was the fucking hottest thing he’d encountered all day. Castiel was lapping at his fingers, even the uninjured ones, like a cat at milk, varying the strokes. Short, long; deeper ones with Dean’s hand warm from Castiel’s breath as he was pushed into his mouth. There was no way his finger was still bleeding.  
Then Castiel started sucking. He closed his lips around Dean’s fingertips, eyes falling shut as well. He breathed in, and with his breath came a gentle suck, pulling Dean’s fingers a slow inch deeper in Castiel’s mouth. It was hot and wet, and soft as his own.  
Castiel’s tongue was curiously tasting Dean’s hand, the tree sap on him, the dirt from his training before and the bitterness of sweat, on top of what remained of his blood. It should have been turning Dean’s stomach inside out with repulsion, but his dick was guiding his desires. _This is fucking hot_ , it said, like a voice from inside. Dean was disinclined to disagree.  
“Um, you know what?” Chuck said, eyes wide. “I’m gonna leave.”  
“No!” Dean shouted suddenly, pulling his hand from Castiel’s mouth with a wet noise. “It’s nothing, it’s - seriously, it’s nothing. Cas was just... God, I don’t know. We mess around sometimes.”  
Chuck looked very much like he would either like to smush their faces together and make them kiss, or run away. Dean may have been imagining the former.  
“Sometimes, me and Cas, we just... do these things together. Sexual... things.”  
“We are not lovers,” Castiel added, staring Chuck down intently. “We merely enjoy each other’s company in... ways that could be misconstrued as sinful.”  
Dean found he was panting softly. He was on the edge between being aroused and panicking, and for some reason, that was turning him on further. He loved talking about it. He loved making it sound like it was nothing, hiding that iceberg of filthy things beneath.  
“So you’re not, like... screwing each other’s butts every time the door is closed,” Chuck considered, one of his eyes still twitching, “are you?”  
“No,” they both said at once.  
Chuck let out a sigh of relief. “Phew. ‘cause that one would be hard to explain to the grandkids.”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Men cannot breed.”  
Chuck seemed to twinge. “Oh. Oh yeah.” Somehow he had forgotten that fact.  
Dean laughed, a flood of relief washing through him; Chuck had brushed it off. It wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t. “But, um. Chuck, don’t tell anyone. _Anyone_.”  
“I will tell only the endless refills of lager that I will drink this evening, and even they wouldn’t believe me.”  
“Good,” said Dean. “That’s... good.”  
Castiel nodded, eyes back on the bonsai. He finished up the last few cuts, then set the knife down on his dressing table as he stood up. Dean would have stood too, would it not have been the kind of movement that would either make him come in his breeches, or else expose the severity of his arousal directly to Chuck’s eyeline.  
But he needed to, because he knew Chuck had every intention of sticking around the rest of the afternoon, and Dean had to return to his training. Castiel needed company, and Dean wasn’t going to be there. So, Chuck had to stay. Which meant Dean had to leave, immediately, before his boner got any more infuriatingly leaky through his underthings.  
Dean half-swivelled around, folding his legs over his crotch, and clambered to his feet, taking Castiel’s hand as it was offered. He sighed, biting hard on his lip as he faced the door, away from the still-sitting Chuck.  
“I gotta go, Cas. Training.”  
Castiel dropped his gaze heavily down Dean’s height, resting on his crotch before it made its way back to his eyes. “I think you may need some time alone before you join your friends.”  
“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”  
Castiel swallowed, leaning in to whisper to Dean with his lips hidden from Chuck by Dean’s shoulder. “I want to kiss you very badly.”  
“Kissing’s the least of what I want,” Dean huffed, dragging in a breath. “But yeah, me too. Can’t though. Jesus, need to go jerk off. Like, right now.”  
“Yes of course, you should go,” Castiel nodded, heading to the door to show Dean out. He leant the side of his head against the edge of the door as it swung open. “I apologise for teasing you so very violently.”  
Dean coughed, wincing as his steps crushed him against his trousers a little. “It’s fine, it was fun. Just... maybe not with the company, next time.” He began panting again, eyes closing. “Need to go. Right now. Bye.”  
He sidled through the door and glanced back to see Castiel watching him go longingly, wanting to follow. Dean turned the corner that Gabriel had put in, coming out into the main corridor to Castiel’s bedroom. There was a single window out here, at the end of the hall, opposite the double doors that led to Castiel’s room. He was alone, since nobody came down here. Dean couldn’t bear to walk anywhere else.  
He undid his trousers there, in the middle of the hallway, and took himself in hand, head falling back in relief.  
“ _Uhhh_ ,” he sighed, stroking once, long and already a bit slick from the pre-come that had been wetting him this whole time. He set his legs apart and let his chin fall to his chest, watching himself vanish in his fist, sliding from base to tip, cockhead cupped under the slow slide of his palm. He breathed through his nose until he got dizzy, then bit his lip and tipped his head back again, sliding and pumping. Slowly, just enjoying the feel of his hand on himself.  
His free hand slid inside his trousers, fingers slipping over his balls and massaging gently, letting his hands roll himself into them. A fingertip ventured further back, stroking along the soft line of his perineum, and he whimpered, desperately trying to hold the sound back. It let loose anyway, and he grunted, unsure how loud he had been.  
~x~  
“Okay, _enough_. God, you’re as bad as Cas,” Sam whined, head in his hands and he shook it.  
“What?” Dean complained, throwing a small pebble at Sam. “It was a good moment, okay?”  
Sam rolled his eyes, wishing he didn’t have these images in his head. “Move on. Now.”  
Dean scowled, throwing a slightly larger stick at Sam, who knocked it out of the air before it hit him. “Fine. I’m gonna skip the rest of the day too.”  
“What? Why―”  
Dean flicked a small leaf at Sam’s knee. “Just Guard stuff. Actually no - I saw Andy again, he said he was in for the long haul in bringing down the Priestess. He really hated her. I don’t blame him.” Dean ceased projecting plant life at Sam’s head and sank down on his log, glancing at the lake as the sun shone brighter, a layer of clouds breaking apart overhead. “She did those things to Cas... I’d hate to know what makes a person do that.”  
“She just wanted to feel powerful,” Sam said, stretching his damp trousers down his leg with one hand. “If Andy was right, and she didn’t really do anything for the city, then having anything she wanted probably wasn’t enough. It’s the same with all greedy people. They gotta take something from someone else before they feel complete. As a thief, you kind of learn that quick. Other thieves, I mean. I only take what I need, and not out of bitterness.”  
Dean sighed, sniffing his hands gingerly. He’d washed them, repeatedly - even smothered them in ash, and they still smelled vaguely fishy. “Don’t start saying me and Cas are like that, ‘cause we’re not. I have Cas, like I want, and I have freedom, like I want. Yeah, I know, I see the similarities there. But taking the Priestess’ life isn’t some crazy thing, Sam, I’m not doing it to fill some void in my soul that isn’t really there. It’s to bring Cas back to me, and to punish her.”  
“She thought she was punishing Cas when she hurt him. Given the right circumstances, everyone is capable of doing something that terrible. She thought she was doing right by Cas by keeping him locked up, keeping him on the right path. You think you’re doing good, when really - listen to yourself, Dean - you’re talking about killing another human being. It’s premeditated _murder_ , Dean.”  
Dean closed his eyes and kept them closed. “I gotta, Sam. It’s the only―”  
“It’s _not_ the only way.”  
Dean hurled a stick at Sam, hitting him on the shoulder gently. “Shut up about it. Just shut up.”  
“Fine - _fine!_ ” Sam sighed, glaring at the sky.  
“Where was I?” Dean spat, anger abating as he sulked; his shoulders unhunching after only a few seconds. He didn’t seem to enjoy being angry at Sam. Sam was glad, because he didn’t like Dean being angry at him either.  
“You were telling me about your personal moments that I really didn’t need to hear about.”  
“Yeah, yeah. Then, Guard, and then Andy, then...” he closed his eyes, hand jumping about in the air as he considered a timeline in his mind. “Yeah. That night.” He stared at Sam, rubbing his cold hands together slowly. “Slept without Cas again.”  
“Wait, what? You didn’t talk to him at all since the morning?”  
Dean shook his head. “I spent ages working with Andy, planning on getting the perfume. We went full-out, seriously, paper diagrams of the Priestess’ room and everything.”  
“Didn’t even say goodnight?” Sam found it a little hard to grasp. Dean seemed incapable of going a few hours without his fallen angel, and this one time, he’d managed to go a whole day-and-a-half without even kissing him.  
Dean licked his lips and shook his head again. “It wasn’t something we needed to talk about; we both knew we had to stay away. Especially after Chuck.”  
“You didn’t pass notes, or... _anything?_ Didn’t you get withdrawal symptoms or something?”  
Dean slumped his shoulders, irritated. “No, nothing. And if you’d actually let me talk, that was basically what I was about to tell you next.”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
Dean pressed a finger and his thumb together and sealed his lips shut with a swiftly mimed sewing gesture from one side to the other. “Keep it shut, and let me say what I’m tryin’ to, dammit.”  
~x~  
Dean lay alone in his bed, fingers tapping a beat on his hip, rustling the edge of his breeches. He stared at the dark sheet draped above his bed, between the bedposts. His eyes followed the curve of the fabric in the dim moonlight, the glow from the window just hitting its side. He kicked the blankets off, sprawling out. Then he bent forward and wrenched them right back up, not enjoying the draft.  
Too hot again. He wriggled under the covers and huffed in the sudden humidity, struggling to undo his breeches and untangle them from his legs as he pulled them off.  
He lay back down and kept up the beat on his hipbone, pointlessly focusing on the ripple of muscle when he hit it. He wasn’t about to sleep, and he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. Which sucked, because he was tired.  
Dean rolled onto his front and kicked his legs, tenting the blanket repeatedly and eventually working it onto the floor, but couldn’t be bothered retrieving it despite his chilling buttocks being bared to the air.  
He grumbled into his pillow and punched his headboard. This was inconvenient.  
“Oh, fuck it,” he said into his pillow, liking the muffled booming noise his voice made around his ears. He stilled himself before he pulled away, content to stay for a second more, yelling into the plump feather down and listening for the altered sound bounding back to him.  
Eventually he threw himself backwards with a frustrated grunt, hurling himself toward the door of his room on determined legs. He made it three steps down the spiral stairs before he realised he was stark naked, and despite it being the middle of the night, that was probably bad form.  
He heaved a sigh and went back to dress himself, leaving his sword Sabbath behind. He usually went everywhere with it, but he needed no weapon where he was going, not even a metaphoric one.  
The castle looked different at night. The air was warm, the usually sun-drenched corridors now darkened by shadows, but still the heat remained. He was alone, like a dark ghost striding through hallways. The place smelled different, as well. It was like the life of the day had settled, sinking into the carpets. Dean stirred it as he passed, but walked into empty places like the first person to ever walk these halls.  
He touched the walls as he passed. His fingers dragged through the cloth of tapestries, feeling the rough texture burn on his skin, then hearing his fingers squeak against polished wooden panels, pulling his hand away as he passed pillars and decorative armour.  
He made his way through the outside courtyards, looking up at the moon as he went. The sky was clear, and there was nothing lighting his path but the moon and stars. He could be the only person awake in the city.  
The marble foyer tapped under his feet as he walked, and he covered it as quickly as he could, hoping nobody heard him. Nobody should.  
Staircases, corridors, turnings and passageways. Finally, he made it to the last corridor. He opened the last two doors as quietly as possible, the ring handles in each hand. He shut them behind him, and turned the final, newly added corner, stopping at last and taking a deep breath before he opened the door.  
He could knock, but no, Cas wouldn’t be awake. He didn’t want to disturb him, not until he was right there next to him. As carefully as possible, Dean opened the door, one hand on the handle and one on the door frame. The hanging sheets were as white as ever, if blue-tinged in the moonlight. The sky was full and bright through this window, the whole room basking in its splendour.  
Castiel’s bed was illuminated as a glowing silhouette, the dark-haired shape curled into the blankets with his head turned away. Dean sighed and pushed the door closed.  
Silently, he undressed. He didn’t need to fuss; he’d only put on his trousers, shirt and boots. He hadn’t even bothered with his belt or breeches, and his trousers slipped easily to the wooden floor.  
Bare feet crossed the room to the bed, one knee crooked up, slipping over the silk sheets, sliding between the mattress and the blanket. The rest of Dean’s body followed, hands pulling back the sheets as he folded into them, supple and smooth with his naked skin against the fine threads.  
A hand travelled between his body and the other, fingertips finding Castiel’s heated back, shifting to his hip and spreading open-handed over him. Dean exhaled and relaxed, shuffling closer, own hips pressing gently up behind Castiel’s, skin on heat. He kissed Castiel’s neck softly and then lay his head on the pillow, breath of his nose just tickling the back of Castiel’s head.  
“Mh?” the other man muttered, stirring.  
“It’s just me, Cas.”  
“Dean?” Castiel was awake now, if floppy and bleary with sleep. He rolled over, leg thrown over Dean’s bare hip, palm finding his heart with a sliding hand. “‘m glad you’re here,” he slurred, eyes mostly closed still, the wrap of his legs tightening a little.  
“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean explained.  
“Me neither,” Castiel sighed, burying his lips in Dean’s throat, kissing once, twice. “I’ve b’n awake all night.”  
Dean smirked, sliding his arm up Castiel’s back, cupping his shoulder blade. “Clearly.”  
“Mm,” Castiel murmured, tongue very gently lapping once at Dean’s stubble. “You’re welcome to make love to me if you wish, but I apolo... apologise if I am largely unresponsive. I feel... very―” he yawned softly, like a kitten, “v’ry... sleepy.” He snuffled.  
Dean smiled widely against Castiel’s slack lips, holding him tight against himself. “That wasn’t what I came for, Cas.” He closed his eyes, sighing exceedingly slowly.  
“Then wh’d you... come for?”  
Dean kissed Castiel’s upper lip once. “Just you.”  
Castiel mumbled and became loose and pliable in Dean’s arms, eyelids barely flickering as he fell straight back to sleep. Dean only had to breathe his sweet scent and feel the heat of Castiel’s body against him for a few minutes until he drifted under as well.  
“G’night, Cas,” he managed, before some angelic haze took him.  
~  
“Dean!”  
“Wuh?”  
“Dean, wake up, come on!” Castiel shook Dean’s hip, his voice far too excited. He was standing up, leaning over Dean’s slumbering form.  
“Wha’s goin’ on?”  
“It’s almost dawn. I have to show you something.”  
Dean grumbled and rolled onto his front, fluffing his pillow under his arms, rearranging his face on it. “M’ngh.”  
“Dean, I really need to show you this.”  
“Why is it _dawn_ , man? ‘m sleeping.” Dean creaked open an eyelid, spying the sky outside. It was still night. Castiel still prodded him from the other side. “If you’re tryin’ to show me a boner, it’s fondly known as morning wood, and I’d have one myself if _it were actually morning_. This is still _night_ , Cas.”  
“That wasn’t what I wanted to show you, but I...” Castiel stopped prodding Dean for a moment. “I did wonder why I didn’t have one today.”  
“Jesus, Cas. Get back to bed.” Dean covered his head with the pillow and tried to get back to sleep.  
“Dean, please get up.”  
Dean scowled, hard-pressed to ignore that idiotically pleading tone. “Whyyyyyyy?”  
Castiel grabbed Dean by his hips and hauled him upright, pulling him tightly into an embrace from behind. “I want to show you something,” he whispered into Dean’s ear.  
Dean let his head fall back as he sighed. “Fine.”  
“Put your clothes on, we have to walk.”  
“Cas, you’re not meant to leave your room―”  
“To use a phrase I’m sure you’ll understand,” Castiel said matter-of-factly, spinning Dean around to press a chaste kiss to his lips, “fuck that.”  
Dean broke into a tired grin, slumping as Castiel’s arms slid off his and he wandered away, bare ass swaying beautifully. “You know you just get hotter every day, Cas.”  
Castiel vanished into the washroom, calling back, “I am aware, yes.”  
Dean huffed a laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed, very tempted just to lie back and snooze for a bit. “Your sense of humility gets a little smaller, too,” he muttered, too tired to say it loud enough for Castiel to hear.  
Castiel came back a few minutes later, shaking water off his hands and wiping it off his cheek. He flicked a line of fingers in Dean’s face, unimpressed that he wasn’t dressed yet.  
“Ngh,” Dean complained, scrubbing cold droplets off his face all the way to the washroom. He came back a minute later to find Castiel only wearing breeches, arms folded impatiently.  
“We must hurry, Dean, please put your clothes on.”  
“You’re not putting yours on?”  
Castiel glanced down at himself. “I am dressed.”  
“Someone might see you.”  
Castiel shrugged like he couldn’t care less. “Everyone is asleep.”  
“You don’t think we should take a hint from that?”  
“Stop complaining, Dean,” Castiel said, helping Dean on with his shirt. “You will not regret this, I promise.”  
“Unless you get caught out of your room with no clothes on, with a dude.”  
“Unless that happens, yes,” Castiel agreed, buttoning Dean’s trousers for him.  
Dean shook his head, rubbing a hand against a twitching eye. “Figures you’d be a morning person,” he said, woefully, following as Castiel led the way out of the room, letting Dean close the door for him. “How come there’s no protective spells to stop you leaving?” he asked, hurrying to catch up with Castiel as he was already at the second double door, tugging it open.  
“The main door is locked for me - and anyone who is not the Priestess. Gabriel made it so she won’t be able to see the other door, the new one. And I can’t get in and out any other way.”  
“Huh. Neat.” Dean almost had to jog to keep up with Castiel; the guy was fast when he was determined to get somewhere. It was an effortless stride, pushed forward on well-crafted, toned thigh muscles. Dean purposefully hung back for a long while, admiring the buttocks that moved inside Castiel’s underthings, tugged and swayed by his walking. His thighs were powerful things, really. Dean had a sudden desire to put his mouth on them. Well, there’d be time for that later. Right now he had to run to keep up with an insanely rapid pace.  
“Where are you taking me, exactly?”  
“You’ll see.”  
Dean squinted to recognise things, to work out where they were headed, but everything looked vaguely shadowy on this side of the castle, lost in a fuzzy blue-black. He mostly saw Castiel’s back drifting in and out of pale moonlight, the moon almost lost on the horizon as dawn approached.  
They climbed a staircase and came to the brighter side of the building, no direct moonlight, but a rebounding radiance that somehow filled the red-carpeted corridor with a warm glow.  
“Oh,” Dean realised, as they wound their way across the last, ever-deserted landing. “The garret? That’s where we’re going.”  
“No,” Castiel said, glancing back, eyes shining as they reached the last hallway. His pale skin drifted into the hazy light of the window on his left, highlighting his slender figure. “We’re going to the roof.”  
Castiel took Dean’s hand and pulled him onto the red carpet, this one worn. There were no other windows nor turnings off this corridor; the right-turn here was never ventured down, as nobody went to the garret any more except Castiel. They had one last staircase to climb before they got there.  
But Castiel stopped, only a single step into the darkness. He glanced to Dean, a playful smirk in his eye. Then he bent down and pulled his breeches off, and handed them casually to Dean.  
“Cas―”  
“Nobody can see me. I’m naked, in a public place; people could see me if they were here.” Castiel walked backwards, leaving Dean holding the linen limply from his hand, bewildered. Castiel looked gorgeous in this light. “Only you can see me. Unclothed. Nothing but my skin, bared, unadorned, for nobody but you.”  
Dean swallowed, looking the man up and down. He stood a good few paces away, smirking. His eyes never left Dean’s as Dean folded his underthings in his arms, then unfolded them again and slung them over his shoulder, whipping his back.  
“This is what you wanted to show me?” he asked with a tiny frown.  
“You don’t like it?”  
Dean grinned, licking his lips. “I never said that.”  
“Good. But no, this was not what I meant to show you,” Castiel added, reaching a beckoning hand to Dean, bringing him closer before Dean knew his feet were moving. “I enjoy doing spontaneous things when you are with me,” Castiel said, slipping his hand through Dean’s, fingers twining together. “And I enjoy being naked when you are looking at me.”  
“I noticed,” Dean said, eyes on Castiel’s throat. His gaze slid down Castiel’s form as they walked, lingering on the gentle sway of Castiel’s member. “One day we should fuck somewhere like this,” he whispered, lips coming to rest on Castiel’s ear, nose bumping his earlobe.  
They had slowed considerably, Castiel apparently in less of a hurry now. “We should,” he agreed, tone hushed.  
Dean pulled away a few inches to look at their clasped hands, palms together and Castiel’s slim fingers twisted through his own firm-knuckled ones. As he watched them, Castiel pulled out of his gentle hold and scampered a few steps ahead, raising his arms above his head and flipping himself so he stood on his hands, the swift movement followed through by his feet, which fell back to the floor. He stood up straight, huffing happily at his successful cartwheel. He turned back to Dean, beaming.  
Dean smiled, holding him around the waist as he directed him to the turning for the garret. “This better be worth it, Cas. I can feel my brain eating itself.”  
“From fatigue?”  
“From seeing you naked and not fucking you right here and now.”  
They climbed the rest of the musty staircase in silence, Castiel’s hand finding Dean’s again, letting him go in front as he hung behind. Dean came out first into the expansive hallway, endlessly coated in a deep layer of dust. This time it wasn’t even bathed in moonlight, only the grainy darkness of pre-dawn.  
“Hurry, the sun will be on the horizon in a short while.”  
Dean slid the breeches off his shoulder and whacked Castiel with them as he went ahead, his replying laugh swallowed along with the shape of his naked form as he disappeared into the tunnel-like staircase that led to the roof opening.  
“Aw, man, do we have to go up there?” Dean whined, always unhappy that they were so high up, but having to clamber on a slanted surface with no edges and a steep drop on all sides, that was not something he would do wilfully.  
“If you wish to see what I want to show you, then yes,” Castiel called back, voice eerie as it floated from somewhere ahead.  
Dean slung Castiel’s underthings back over him and started his ascent on stairs he couldn’t see, into the unknown. He almost jumped out of his skin, squeaking loudly as a warm hand slid around his own, finding him effortlessly. “Cas, that’s you, right?” he asked warily.  
Castiel hummed beside him, squeezing his hand. “Yes, Dean.”  
Castiel dropped his hand suddenly, and Dean heard a wrenching, cracking noise, and ducked as a sudden shaft of light broke over his head and hit the dust in the air. As soon as he realised it was nothing solid, he stood back up and watched Castiel clamber, somewhat ungainly, out onto the roof. Dean’s eye followed the dangle of his testicles as he turned around, holding a hand out for Dean to take.  
“Come, Dean, leave the breeches there.”  
Dean scrunched the material in his hand, unwilling to let go of his symbolic tie to the will to stay inside. “You’ll catch me if I fall―”  
“Dean, I would never let you fall. You are always safe with me.”  
“Even without mojo?”  
“You will never be in danger if you are with me.”  
Dean laughed softly. “Is that meant to be for just while we’re running around on rooftops at dawn, or, like, _always_.”  
Castiel slid forward on his stomach, hands on the edge of the roof opening, face looming close to Dean’s, his breath soft on his lips. “Unless something extremely unexpected happens, you will always be okay. I promise to keep you safe, from now until always. Forever.”  
Dean swallowed. “You’re just saying that.”  
“I think it’s fair to say that you falling off the roof would be unexpected, so no, I see no loopholes in my promise. I am not just saying that.”  
Dean steeled himself, then dropped the breeches, and took Castiel’s hand as he pulled back to a kneel, giving Dean space to climb up.  
Dean crawled ahead, crossing to the same place he and Castiel had sat together when he had seen a magnificent pair of wings rising from Castiel’s back, crackling with lightning.  
“Don’t look down, don’t look down,” he whispered to himself, eyes only on the place he was headed, and the roof tiles in front of him. The sky was luminescent ultramarine; it was still a while before daybreak, but the scent of rising air was in his mouth.  
Birds twittered in the distance - far away, of course, as all the trees were on the ground, where Dean felt resolutely that it would be more sensible to be. The dawn chorus was just starting up, and as Dean reached his target destination and rolled onto his back, holding onto the roof for dear life, he closed his eyes and listened to the chattering and swooping calls of birds singing their morning song.  
Maybe this was what Castiel wanted to share with him, Dean speculated, sighing as the heat of Castiel’s body curled up against his own, hand on the shirt over his stomach. It was beautiful, but Dean had no idea why they needed to be on the roof to enjoy it. Opening a window would have sufficed.  
“Open your eyes, Dean,” Castiel instructed, low voice grinding against Dean’s shoulder. “You need to be watching, or you’ll never see.”  
Dean’s face twitched, not wanting to even be aware of how close to the sky they were. He knew from experience that if there was nothing around you to distract you, like buildings or trees, or other people - if he looked right up at the sky, it looked close enough to touch. It always felt like he could reach an arm up and poke at the clear blue of a summer sky, pressing spread fingertips into its soft surface, dragging through its warm flesh like softened butter, feeling it give and bend under his pressure. At night, he could reach to touch the stars, feeling tiny raised dots of light perforating the fabric of darkness.  
“Open your eyes, Dean,” Castiel’s voice came again. “I want to show you something. A thing I’ve never showed anyone, and I will never show any other person but you.”  
Dean gulped, then allowed his eyes to slide open. The sky was a little brighter now than when he’d closed his eyes, and he blinked, adjusting. It was a shallow blue, still too dark to see Castiel’s face clearly; he was only a black shape against the sky. Dean could still make out the brighter stars.  
“Are we waiting for something?” Dean asked.  
“Yes.”  
“What?”  
“You will know when you see it. Keep your eyes on the sky, and listen carefully.”  
Dean sighed, interested, but trying to keep down the bubble of fatigue that threatened to claim his consciousness again. Birds warbled their sweet songs, trilling and whistling.  
Castiel shuffled closer, raising an arm into the sky, black line of slender muscle breaking Dean’s vision for a long moment before Castiel dropped it back to his side, then crossed it to curl around Dean’s inner elbow.  
As Dean blinked hard, just once, his eye caught sight of something bright on the top corner of his vision, not the dawn, but on the other side. “What’s―”  
“Don’t look directly, you won’t see it as well.”  
“What is it?” It looked like a line, a trail of light, thin like a thread, crossing the sky. As Dean watched it, not sure what he was even looking at, and seeing it only between blinks, it lengthened. “The hell?”  
Another line joined it, a similar colour, crossing it in an X. Dean blinked a couple more times, then realised there was another dimmer line right above them, some indeterminable distance away. It seemed like it was right above Dean’s face, but then again, it was the same distance away as the stars.  
Another, and another. Blue lines, shades lighter than the sky, crossing straight over the expanse of above. Some began to twirl, growing as Dean’s eye followed them. The ones that were already there stayed, untouched and undisturbed, the new ones covering them closer to Dean.  
“Cas, what the hell is that? Are you using your mojo?”  
“You will work out what they are soon, when it gets brighter.”  
“Cas... Mojo?” Dean’s voice grew stern, head turning away from the glowing lines in the sky, resting on Castiel’s undefined face.  
Castiel said nothing for a moment. “I regret that I have broken your promise again, but―”  
“Cas, no―”  
“―Dean, this is a perfectly reasonable expression of my skills―”  
“Cas, stop it. Stop it right now.” Dean sat up, no longer caring that he might catch sight of the city below and pass out from terror.  
“No, Dean, I want to show you―”  
“Cas, please!” Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulder, shaking him very gently. “The Priestess will find out and she will _hurt_ you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Dean heard the tremor in his own voice, only now realising how upset he really was.  
“Any pain I suffer at her hands is nothing. Nothing at all, compared to the pleasure I get from showing you something that nobody else can. I want to give you everything, Dean. Please understand.”  
Dean shook his head, hoping Castiel could see. “No, Cas. God. You don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter what you give me. Anything you show me - no matter how much I love it, no matter how mind-blowing - _that’s_ what nothing in comparison to seeing you, just being well and unharmed. Happy.”  
“Death told me love was a compromise. I compromise myself with the pain I give to the Priestess, in exchange for showing you things you love to see. These, here, in the sky,” Castiel said, just visibly gesturing upward, “she might find out, yes, but nothing can take away how happy it made me that you saw it in the first place. You should be happy, Dean. I don’t care what I give, I would give anything. To be with you.”  
“You’re wrong, Cas. I can’t be happy if you’re hurt.”  
Castiel grappled at Dean’s shirt, huffing. “Please, Dean. Give me this.”  
“Cas...”  
“Our time together is not going to last forever,” Castiel told him, voice soft and sorrowful as he spoke. “I may be immortal, but I am not deluded enough to think you would stay for your entire life, no matter what you say. Marriage means little to the people in this society; or keeping yourself for one person. I cannot be with anyone but you, my entire immortal life. I want to show you everything I can in the time we have together.”  
Dean was speechless. He trembled, shaking hand finding Castiel’s as it rested on Dean’s thigh. “You’d move on, Cas,” he said, forcing words out. “Everyone does. You’ll find someone else.”  
“No.” Castiel grabbed Dean by the back of his head with both hands, fingers carding desperately through his hair. “I never will, Dean. Never.” He kissed him, and Dean realised there were tears on his cheeks. “Let me show you what I can, Dean. Please.”  
Dean nodded, nose nudging Castiel’s as their breath mingled. “I’d never leave you, Cas. I hope you know that. I’m not like Chuck. I joked, yeah, but I’m not gonna... it means a lot, all right?” He tangled his own hand through Castiel’s, fingers linking over the back. “It means everything. To just be with you. Until the day I die.”  
Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s again, breathing hard through his nose. Tears were running free and silently down his face, pooling on Dean’s cheeks as their skin touched.  
Castiel pulled away with a huff, interlocked hands slapping on Dean’s thigh, still squeezing tightly.  
“But you will die, Dean,” Castiel whispered, so quietly that Dean almost didn’t hear. “I dread that day more than anything.”  
Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand tighter, then felt fingers on his chin, turning it and guiding his sight back to the heavens. “Watch the sky, Dean,” Castiel breathed, then dropped his hand, and Dean knew his fingers went to his face to wipe away the tears. Dean let them dry on his own face. He wanted to let them soak into his skin, so he would always remember. A promise of his own. He would never leave Castiel. The fallen angel and the soldier: mated for life.  
Dean blinked, letting his tired eyes refocus on the carvings that twisted in the sky. Castiel seemed to have erased all that had been there while he’d been distracted, and now they began to re-form. The sky was brighter, only enough to make out the highlight of Castiel’s cheekbones and the hollows of his eyes from the corner of Dean’s vision.  
The lines drew faster than before - crossing the sky at the same speed, but two or more came at once, crossing and intermingling at the same time. It happened again and again, three, four at once, all in different parts of the sky. Dean’s neck began to ache from looking up while sitting on a slanted surface, but he was too enthralled by the blue threads to care.  
Patterns began to form; some lines followed the paths of others; sometimes two went together, side-by-side. Dean licked his lips, glancing from one side of the sky to the other, thumb rubbing Castiel’s hand.  
“Cas?”  
“Hm?”  
“What are they?”  
“One minute, you’ll see.”  
Dean pressed his lips together impatiently, but waited. The sun was only just beyond the horizon, its glow caressing the outline of the distant mountains. It was warm for night-time, no clouds, no breeze. The dawn carried with it a stiffer air current, something a little cooler. Castiel was not yet cold. His pale unclothed form looked like a mess of long limbs as the glow touched his skin.  
As Dean watched the horizon, the first light of day streaked a line of gold across the threads; the middle parts of the blue turned golden, spreading outward and covering the deep cerulean sky with sunlit radiance. The edges of the sky touched with a deeper orange, the lines of colour like a multi-layered woven tapestry above them. Dean’s jaw was slack, eyes wide in wonder.  
The lines no longer looked flat, and Dean realised they were stacked in an impossible number of layers; they intertwined and crossed from only feet above Dean’s head, to so far above them that the lines were as thin as spider webs.  
“Cas...”  
“Do you see what is making them now?”  
Dean squinted, suddenly not wanting Castiel to tell him, but to work it out for himself. He watched more lines forming, trying to look at what they came from. There, he noticed - tiny dots, dark shapes. Only a hair’s breadth bigger than the lines, they soared in the air and left their trail behind them in their wake.  
“Birds?”  
Castiel nodded, smiling gently. Dean could see his face bathing in the golden wash of sunlight now. His eyes were closed against the bright shine of it, and he looked blissfully happy. “As they make their paths, so I make a map of their travels.”  
“Holy crap, Cas, that’s awesome.”  
“I’m glad you think so,” Castiel said softly, opening his eyes to smile at Dean. “They fly around a lot in the mornings.”  
Dean nodded, gaze back on the patterns in the sky. “Getting breakfast, I guess.”  
Castiel whistled, breaking the hush of deep voices with a graceless squeak. He coughed in discontent, then tried again, only managing a slightly deeper whistle.  
“Here,” Dean offered, licking his lips and pressing them in a tiny ‘o’, blowing out a clear, carrying note that he varied into the pattern of a blackbird’s. It had come from years of practice, but he had every faith that Castiel would pick it up in a matter of minutes.  
Dean grinned at the sky as he let Castiel fumble, screeching out terrible, wildly incorrect notes of song. Dean repeated his blackbird pattern as he watched an actual blackbird passing by, flapping its wings.  
“She doesn’t like you,” Castiel observed, watching the bird flutter away without a second of hesitation. Dean hadn’t expected anything less.  
“That was a guy bird,” he said, untangling their clutched hands and setting his palm atop Castiel’s bare knee instead, thumb rubbing the tender skin on the inside of his leg. “Only the black ones are male.”  
“But they’re called _black_ birds―”  
“The girls are brown.”  
“That is very odd.”  
Dean shrugged, enjoying how the shining lines in the sky felt like a second sun, immersing them in light. Castiel returned to his whistling for a few trembling notes, before he stopped to huff at Dean, “He was a male bird and he didn’t like you. Maybe he has a female companion.”  
Dean was silent for a short while, eyes on the rising sun, squinting. “Maybe he has a guy companion.”  
“Birds do that?”  
“I dunno. I guess they must, if people do.”  
“We are the only men who are mates.”  
Dean smiled warmly at Castiel’s use of the word ‘mates’. Not lovers, nor spouses, nor companions. It worked, he supposed. They would never breed but they would mate together, for as long as possible.  
Dean was thrown back to a moment some days ago: the bliss he’d felt after the first time Castiel and he had touched each other, rolling in the grass, causing another man pleasure for the first time. Dean’s words as he had laid there: in a flash of perfect clarity, he’d said he wanted to share that again with Castiel. Every day, twice a day, for ten years - twenty. Castiel had thought he was joking. Dean had come to believe it as a joke himself, but now? That desire was still ringing true. And more so. Twenty years was nothing.  
Dean had told Gabriel he’d never expected to live past thirty. For most of Dean’s life, he’d believed it. Gabriel had said, quite rightfully, that Castiel was the one Dean should hold on for, and fight for; fight to live forever so they could be together.  
He would. Dean would.  
They’d be together forever even if it tore Dean apart.  
“Cas?”  
“Yes, Dean?”  
Dean swallowed. He took a final look at the glorious canvas that braided the sky, shimmering golden and pink and orange. “I think it’s time to stop,” he said, but not sad about it. It was time for it to end, he couldn’t let it drag until it got boring. Castiel agreed, and with gently-closed eyes, he let the lines tumble down, like spider webs breaking, shivering and drifting down to Earth, vanishing into nothing as they went.  
Dean sighed, seeing only a blue emptiness above him now. It looked strange without its clothes. A naked sky; naked as Castiel’s skin.  
“Cas, you know what you said, about... showing me things. To make me happy.”  
“Yes.”  
Dean licked his lower lip and brought it in to bite gently, then released it. “I don’t have anything beautiful to show you in return.”  
Castiel tilted his head, catching Dean’s eye. He looked at him benevolently, a smile touching the corners of his lips. “Yes you do, Dean.” He rocked forward, closing the space between their bodies, his bare hips pressing to Dean’s right thigh. “Show me love.” And he kissed Dean.  
Dean could barely respond for a moment, intent on re-learning how to breathe first as Castiel pushed open lips over his own, eyes closed.  
It was slow and sensual, nothing insistent. Castiel made no move to further their contact beyond their pressing mouths and reaching tongues. Dean sighed when he felt a hot swipe on his lips, a shiver making its way inside him as Castiel licked at his Dean’s tongue.  
The warmth of the sun touched Dean’s face - then Dean realised it was Castiel’s hand, stroking his cheek, fingertips lining the side of his temple, massaging in a minute circle.  
Their breathing evened, and soon they were breathing for each other, Dean sighing into Castiel’s mouth as Castiel turned his head, nudging his nose against Dean’s - then Castiel worked their mouths open together, passing a breath back, lips closing as Dean took it.  
Dean spread a hand over Castiel’s stubbled jaw, sliding their lips apart so he could look him in the eye. He found himself smiling, and Castiel smiled in return. Castiel blinked a few times, pushing his mouth closed and pressing a speck of spittle into his lower lip. “A whole day without kissing you seems like too long.”  
Dean nodded, eyes falling to Castiel’s lips and then back to his half-blown pupils in rings of blue. One pupil was less dilated than the other, as it was in the sunlight, his iris appearing almost orange as the gold hit the blue. The other eye lay in Dean’s shadow, and along with the first, looked up at him adoringly. Dean didn’t like to think of it like that, to consider how much Castiel felt for him. But it was impossible to avoid, as it was clear how deeply in love Castiel was with him.  
He felt the same. He wanted to say it. He wanted to be the first to say it. He knew Castiel would never utter the exact words unless Dean said them first.  
 _I love you. Just say it, Dean. It’s just words. He already knows you’re thinking it. Just say it._  
Dean gulped. “We should go inside. Get a few hours sleep before I have training.”  
Castiel only blinked. There were no ill feelings in his nod of agreement, despite knowing Dean had been holding back. Of course that only made Dean feel guilty, but he pressed on, eyes on Castiel as he crawled past him. He tried his very hardest not to look down off the edge of the building. It could be miles to the ground, but Dean dared not check.  
“Don’t look, don’t look,” he chanted to himself, making his way over lumpy tiles to the skylight propped open on a wooden beam. “Don’t look, don’t look.” He thanked God that his subconscious wasn’t the type to make him look against his will, on a whim. He made it to the skylight and grappled his way inside, falling onto his feet heavily. He let out a long, open-mouthed breath, curling into a crouch and covering his head with his arms. Castiel landed light-footed beside him, bare feet slapping on the half-rotted wood.  
“You are safe, Dean.”  
“Uh-huh,” Dean said, breathing in a hopefully calming way.  
After closing the trapdoor to the roof, Castiel pulled Dean to his feet, taking his jaw between his fingers. He pushed their lips together once more, lingering in an extended embrace, before he pulled off, leaving Dean slightly dizzy.  
Castiel sauntered off down the stairs, forsaking Dean in the dark.  
“Wait, your breeches,” Dean muttered, poking around with a foot and kicking them blindly into his hand, then locating the first stair and following Castiel down to the garret.  
Castiel waited for him, leaning against the tall windowsill which was at about his chest height, sticking out about an arm’s width from the window. Castiel looked weirdly smug.  
“How come that thing’s not covered in dust?” Dean asked, gesturing to the sill, throwing Castiel his clothes.  
Castiel turned to look, uncrumpling his breeches. “I keep it clean, because I like to sit up there. That’s where I see the view from.”  
“No offence, but I don’t think I have the stomach to look out right now,” Dean said, knowing he would descend into panic, with the knowledge of how far from the ground he’d been. He’d only once been up here in daylight, but had never looked out of the window. He knew if he ever did, he would never brave the roof ever again.  
Castiel held on to his underthings, not yet pulling them on. His feet dragged through the carpet of dust, heading slowly for the door back to the rest of the castle. His focus stayed on Dean, waiting for him to follow.  
“We gotta get back to your room, Cas,” Dean said, walking ahead of the angel. “If the Priestess finds out you’ve been gone, on top of using your magic...”  
“I won’t let her hurt me, Dean. You can cease your endless worrying.” Castiel held the door open for Dean before he started to descend the stairs. “I can take care of myself.”  
“But last time―”  
“Last time I didn’t know what worked against her magic.”  
“Then what works?”  
Castiel smiled. “The power of love.”  
“The power of―”  
“Love.”  
“Uh, uh-huh. Explain?”  
Castiel nodded, leading Dean out into the darkened corridor that he’d cartwheeled in earlier. “When Meg hurt me the last time, she...” Castiel stopped talking, and Dean realised he was thinking about the fact that he’d never told Dean what she’d done to him. “She cut me. She ripped my clothes, and tore my skin with her hands, which were transformed into claws.”  
Dean stopped walking, gaping in horror. “She... she...”  
“Cupid healed me, I’m okay now. Please don’t dwell on it. I never wanted you upset. That’s why I couldn’t - I couldn’t let you see me.”  
“Cas, it upset me. Hell, it upset me a whole lot. I thought you were dying, or dead, or hurt so bad I’d never recognise your face.” Dean made a small sound, letting Castiel tug him back to walking. “If I’d seen you at least I’d know what got fixed.”  
Castiel blinked in thought. “I will remember that.”  
Dean took his hand. “S-so tell me more about this power-o’-love theory.”  
Castiel slowed their pace. Dean saw him judging the distance between where they stepped now, and the end of the corridor, where Castiel would have to replace his clothes and return to reality.  
“She cut the letter ‘M’ onto my chest... here,” Castiel said, taking Dean’s and his hands, placing them over his heart. There was no scar, no marks left now.  
“She marked you?”  
Castiel nodded, swallowing hard so his throat bobbed. “I must admit, I enjoy your marks far more than hers.”  
Dean released a soft laugh, nudging their entwined hands against Castiel’s thigh to encourage him to continue.  
“It was a mark made by magic, not carved by her claws, but pressed into my skin by a sharp, kind of... needle. Made of light, that came from her finger. She moved it over me and it cut me. It didn’t heal like the rest of the cuts, and Cupid feared it would never stop bleeding.”  
“Shit.”  
“It did, only a few minutes later.”  
“How come?”  
Castiel smiled gently, blue eyes resting on Dean’s as he began to swing their hands between them, brushing between their thighs on the down-swing. “Gabriel and Cupid held me, and told me how much I was loved. I was...” Castiel paused to huff an emotional breath, “I felt very lost. I felt worthless, and I accepted Meg’s words as truth. I know it was stupid, but I was very upset.  
“Gabriel hugged me, and I felt better. I didn’t know how I felt, not really, but it was better to know someone was there for me.”  
Dean stepped a little closer to Castiel, the pair of them more than halfway to the end of the corridor now. The light of the window got brighter as they approached.  
“My chest stopped bleeding, and healed without even Cupid’s healing touch. Gabriel called it the power of love.”  
Dean wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but Gabriel seemed to be the most adept at all things magic, and he would know the reason for power if he saw it.  
“I know now, as far as I can tell... The Priestess’ - Meg’s... her power is my own Grace. Keeping it for herself, however she is doing it, explains why she won’t let me use my power.”  
“What’s a Grace?”  
“The essence of an angel. When we fell from Heaven, we fell from Grace. I told you how we became endless clouds of raw power, our forms lost beyond comprehension on Earth. You remember?” Dean nodded. “The power is our Grace.”  
“So your mojo―”  
“Is the product of an angel existing in our vessels, somehow connected to our Grace, whatever or wherever its corporeal form is.”  
“And your actual theory with the power of love―”  
“Is that if I am loved enough, I can use my own power against her.”  
Dean tremored, but managed to keep it out of the hand that held Castiel’s. They reached the end of the hallway, and stopped. Servants sometimes came past here, bypassing this turning, but it was still too early, if only just.  
“You should put some clothes on.”  
Castiel did so, standing on one leg at a time to pull his breeches back on and tying them.  
“You actually... you actually think you’re gonna be okay with Meg? Just by, what, thinking about your friends?”  
Castiel nodded. “I believe it should work, yes.”  
“You’re the only person it’ll work for, though, right? Since it’s your mojo she’s using?”  
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Castiel said, hand raised to stop Dean’s thoughts forming. “She’s not using my mojo, she’s using my pure Grace. My mojo is only in this vessel.  
“If my Grace were transferred to another vessel, it would be only my mind in that vessel. If it were human, I could be a human Castiel. If it were an animal, my mind would be fully inside, but - as in the case of Lucifer, I assume I would retain some of my vessel’s animal traits.”  
“Like humans want sex.”  
Castiel’s eyes dropped to Dean’s crotch briefly, before meeting his eyes again. “Yes. The human libido is a part of my vessel, and I retain that.” He nodded, then kept talking, “My _Grace_ , is the tether that holds me to this vessel. To this planet, possibly.”  
“Jesus, is there nothing simple in the world any more? You’re not making a whole bunch of sense―”  
Castiel frowned. “I’m making perfect sense. You’re just not keeping up.”  
Dean snorted, and waved a hand to sweep Castiel toward the next staircase, heading back to Castiel’s room. Castiel took the stairs heavily, clumping his feet flatly on the steps. Dean imagined that that was his form of sulking.  
“But... Cas.”  
“Yes?” Castiel stopped stomping, head turned halfway to watch Dean hurrying a few stairs to catch up.  
“Don’t let her hurt you. Please. I can’t protect you if your plan fails.”  
“I don’t expect you to.”  
Dean lowered his gaze, opening the next door for Castiel and letting him pass. The passageways were still empty, but Dean could see people in the far-distant ends of corridors, mostly servants. They had to get back before Castiel was seen and recognised.  
Dean went ahead a passageway now, scouting for other people before he waved Castiel through. They couldn’t talk like this, but it was a companionable, symbiosis of silence. In a few minutes, Castiel was back in his room, Dean closing the door behind them.  
“You wanted some more sleep,” Castiel informed him, in the rare assumption that Dean had forgotten how tired he was.  
“I did, yeah.”  
Castiel removed his breeches again and clambered beneath the covers. Dean smiled and took his own clothes off. Castiel was warm against him, completely relaxed already.  
“Ew, don’t you ever wash your feet?” Dean asked, finding the soles of Castiel’s feet were gruff with carpet grime.  
“I will wash them later, when we aren’t trying to sleep,” he said, pulling Dean closer as he closed his eyes.  
Dean rolled his eyes and slumped down, snuggling the pillow under his cheek.  
Finally he had the chance to rest, and found that instead, he spent the time staring at Castiel as he lay there. He looked perfect, all rounded high cheekbones and dainty dark eyelashes, pale pink lips always pulled in a flat line.  
“Stop admiring my face and go to sleep,” Castiel muttered, with a frown accompanying a smile.  
Dean smirked, pressed a kiss to Castiel’s forehead, then did exactly as he said.  
~  
 _Let him sleep, he looks so peaceful anyway._  
Castiel slept so calmly, doing nothing but lying there and breathing. He usually lay on his back, but Dean had gotten too close while they rested together, and somehow in his sleep had rolled over, half on top of Cas. He woke up curled around Castiel’s back, their bodies entwined.  
He kissed Castiel’s shoulder and got up after only a moment, pulling his clothes on as quietly as possible. Looking down at the bed, he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger; Castiel’s back was finely toned, the muscles moving ever so gently as he breathed.  
Dean sighed, not wanting to leave at all. But, alas, he had things to be doing. Training wasn’t for another couple of hours, unless Dean had overslept much longer than he thought he already had. It should be about eight in the morning, now.  
He took a last look at his fallen angel, then eased back out the door and headed for his room. First things first, he needed breakfast... and underwear.  
~  
“Wasn’t Gabriel meant to meet us here?”  
“You remember the plan, right?” Dean asked, eyeing Andy warily.  
“‘course. We only went over it a million times.”  
Dean nodded. “Just checking. Because yes, Gabriel was meant to meet us here. And he’s not here.”  
“You know where he is?”  
Dean sighed, head to the sky as his eyes closed. “He’ll be in his room still.”  
“Wanna go fetch?”  
Dean ground his teeth. He hated when plans didn’t go _according to plan_. “If I go fetch, you’re coming with me, all right? I’m not losing you off the edge of the map.”  
“Lead the way, dude.” Andy fluttered his hands backwards to Dean, gesturing for him to start walking.  
Dean fretted all the way to Gabriel’s rooms. They were already almost an hour past when the Priestess left her own quarters; that gave them an hour less before she was set to return. Not that they intended to stick around that long, of course. This was an in-out job. Find the bottle, grab the bottle, get the hell out.  
Dean didn’t need a team, not of three entire people. He’d only needed Andy for the planning, and Gabriel for the tips on breaking and entering - Dean was pretty skilled in that area, but not when it came to rooms protected by endless magical barriers.  
Gabriel had insist that Dean needed him for the break-in. Andy caught wind that he was being left out, and insisted he come along too, because of various badly-explained reasons that largely centred on them needing his telepathic power for something. Dean saw right through it: Andy just wanted a rule-breaking rush. Dean was no stranger to that, so he rolled his eyes and gave in.  
Dean knocked loudly on Gabriel’s door, ready to either punch him in the face or grab him by the collar and drag him to where he was supposed to be. Possibly both. He could have just left him behind, but as Dean mulled it over, he realised that if anything went wrong, he needed a guy with magic. Gabriel was always that guy.  
The door opened a crack, then something thumped the back of it and it was pulled open wider. Gabriel scrubbed a hand down his face, still sleepy.  
“We had an appointment,” Dean said tersely.  
“Yeah, yeah, hang on,” Gabriel muttered, falling back and letting the door swing open as he shuffled away, loose bedshirt hanging off him. He wasn’t even dressed.  
Dean and Andy stood at the door and peered inside. Thin curtains hung on Gabriel's windows, which cast the whole place in a warm yellow glow. An oak four-poster bed stood in the centre of the room, on which Anna sat, pulling on her boots.  
“Hey Captain,” Anna said with a small wink.  
“Uh, Anna.” Dean blinked a few times and grinned apprehensively. “What are you doing here?”  
Anna stood up and swayed over to the door, the slim curve of her hips hidden under a brown linen shirt that was clearly not her own. “What’d you think I’m doing here?” she smirked. She leant on the doorframe and looked across the small distance between the door and Dean, who found himself leaning backwards uncomfortably. He’d never seen Anna so relaxed, and it was unnerving.  
“Uh... uh.”  
Dean got an elbow in the ribs. Andy hissed at him from the corner of his mouth, “I think they’ve been _enjoying each other’s company_ , if you catch my drift.”  
“Uh... yeah, yep, I got that.” Dean swallowed and clutched his sword hilt a little tighter. “Soooo. Is Gabriel almost ready? We got stuff to do.”  
“Hey, Winchester!” Gabriel called from the room, leaning into Dean’s line of sight from behind Anna, pulling a shirt over his arms. “You wanna clue Anna in on the job? She’s mighty good at finding lost things.”  
Dean knew it was true, but was disinclined to agree. “No offence, but we can find it ourselves.”  
Anna shrugged a shoulder, playing with her hair. “What is it you’re after?”  
Dean gritted his teeth. Nope, nope, nope.  
“Perfume,” Andy said. Dean stood on Andy’s toe.  
Anna raised her eyebrows, turning her head back to glance a Gabriel. “Anything special, or just―”  
Andy piped up again, “The Priestess stole it from Dean’s b―”  
Dean slapped a hand over Andy’s mouth, “―Girl. Girlfriend.”  
Anna nodded slowly, smiling at Andy when he could finally breathe again, as Dean dropped his hand. “Stealing, Dean? From the Priestess?”  
Gabriel appeared behind her, slapping her on the shoulder. “Trust me, it’s worth it.”  
Anna looked between the boys curiously, then pursed her lips. “I’m coming with you.”  
Dean grimaced in dismay. “No - no, Anna - Jesus, I don’t need this many people, I just... Look, I’m going in, grabbing the stuff, getting out. Nothing complicated.”  
Anna shook her head. “It’s more complicated than you think.”  
Dean rolled his head back, sighing loudly. “Ugh, you’re not using your mojo on me again, are you?”  
Anna shook her head, smiling at Andy, who looked like he was blushing. “Used it on Andy. Sorry, kid. But it’s harder to pry information out of the Captain, he’s very... how should I put this, ungiving with his thoughts. Walls and barriers all over the shop.”  
Gabriel caught Dean’s eye and grinned. “We could do with her, Dean. Hey, you never know. Girls are good for a thing or two.”  
Dean soured, because he distinctly caught a prod of teasing there, about how very male Castiel was.  
Anna disappeared inside the room, coming back while wrapping a form-fitting belt around her hips, instantly showing off her figure. Her sword was tied to it, and she instantly looked ready for battle; red hair like a waterfall of angry flame over her shoulders.  
“Let’s do this thingy. A very illegal, dangerous, idiotic thingy.” She shook her head fondly at Gabriel and Dean, then led the way down the hall.  
They walked in silence for a while, Anna knowing the way from this part of the castle, and directing the others as they followed in her footsteps.  
“So tell me, Dean, what’s so special about this girl of yours that you’ll risk your new Captain position for a bottle of her perfume?”  
Dean hated how much she’d already picked out of Andy’s brain, and was thankful that Andy managed to have kept Castiel’s gender out of his mental transfer. “She’s... nice.”  
Anna laughed, hand whacking Dean on the side. “Sure, I can see that. Yeah, she must be.”  
Dean licked his lips. “She’s... smart, and creative. Curious about stuff. She likes to show me things.” He huffed, grinning, sneaking a quick glance to Gabriel and Andy, who were a few paces behind and just out of earshot as Dean whispered, “She’d good in bed. Um.”  
“Weird, though,” Anna mused, voice airy in thought.  
“What is?”  
“Usually when guys meet a girl the first thing they’re like is, ‘ _oh-ho-ho, she’s so hot_ ’,” Anna said, putting on a mockingly deep, gruff voice, swaying her shoulders in an overly masculine manner. Her voice returned to normal as she asked, “So, she’s just not attractive, or―?”  
“―She is. She... God, she is. It’s just not the first thing that kind of, leaps to mind, you know?”  
Anna narrowed her eyes, leading Dean up a staircase. “No?”  
Dean licked his lips again, worried Anna might press too hard and he might blurt something out. “Her looks weren’t what I fell for, is what I mean.”  
Anna smirked, picking up on something more. “But they sure helped.”  
Dean nodded, slowing down as they reached the last corner before the Priestess’ room, waiting for the others to catch up.  
Andy jumped once on the spot as they crowded together. This part of the hallway was wood-paneled all the way to the ceiling, polished oak across the floor with a red carpet down the middle. Dean poked his head around the corner, checking whether the coast was clear. A short way along the hall was the entrance to the Priestess’ rooms, wide double doors like there were on Castiel’s room.  
“Okay, the plan, as Andy could tell you, is simple. Or it _should_ have been simple. We’re after a blue bottle, about the size of my hand. It’s kind of pear-shaped, thinner at the top. Kind of, uh, slim, I guess. The stopper is like a little glass ball, and there’s a gold band around the neck.” He gestured in mid-air, trying to carve the shape visually.  
“Got it,” Anna said, nodding firmly. “I’ll keep an eye out, but - I can use angel magic as well, right?”  
Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Could be tricky. I mean, Cas gave me a cheat to get past it - as of yet untested, but that room in there, it’s pretty much like a solid mass of power, right Andy?”  
Andy looked caught off-guard at being called out, but glanced at the others and nodded. “The power she uses when she’s walking around is only the stuff she can carry in her body, but she focuses a whole lot of it at her room. It was really friggin’ trippy trying to see inside there, I gotta tell you.”  
“Trippy?”  
Andy shrugged, cocking his head. “Either she was messing with me, or there’s some freakin’ hell beasts in there.”  
Dean winced, suddenly more glad he had magical help. He reconsidered how important a bottle of perfume really was, in the great scheme of things, and yet again determined that yes, it was important. It was Castiel’s, and the first thing he and the angel had shared together, and he didn’t want someone as cruel as the Priestess to take that away.  
“Okay, is that it?” Anna asked, biting the side of her lip.  
“One more: leave everything as you find it. She can’t know we’ve been in there.” Dean took a breath and nodded, turning to check the hall again: deserted. He waved a hand to those behind him, gesturing them forward―  
A white-dressed figure slipped out of the doors, turning to close them behind her, then began to walk down the hall, away from Dean’s troupe.  
Dean stepped on Anna’s toes, who thankfully made no noise. They hurriedly returned to their hiding place, Dean shuffling them back.  
“She’s there!” Dean hissed, eyes wide. “She only just left!”  
Andy huffed out a breath of heavy surprise, looking ready to run the other way. Gabriel held onto him by the shoulders, stilling him while he tried to pull away.  
Dean checked the hall once more, and felt his shoulders slump down. “She went the other way, it’s cool.” He whistled silently, sighing in relief. “Andy, I thought you said she left at seven...”  
Andy whimpered, sinking back into Gabriel’s steadying hands. “She does?”  
Dean shook his head, only glad that she was gone _now_. He waved the team forward again, stepping lightly up to the door. Dean pressed a line of fingers to the wood, testing its give. It was as sturdy as anything.  
He tried the handles, unsurprised to find it locked, but dismayed to find that the lock was not visible, only the flat of wood and a pair of ring handles. He flicked his eyes to Gabriel, tipping his head at the door. “Think you could budge it?”  
Gabriel stepped forward, shoving Andy to the middle of the hallway and indicating with wild hand gestures that he should keep watch. Anna stood beside Andy and held a hand out in front of her, directing it down the hall, and Dean realised she was putting up some kind of magical barrier or scan or something. She did seem to be quite good at those, too.  
Gabriel stepped back from the door after half a minute of grunting. “Nope, it’s like trying to magic wings onto a horse.”  
“Huh?”  
Gabriel grinned. “What, you’ve never tried it? It seems easy at first, but it doesn’t stick. The poor stallion ends up moulting feathers for a month-and-a-half.”  
“So you can’t get in?” Dean eyed the door morosely, rapping at it with a knuckle.  
“Hey, I didn’t say that, I just need to try different tactics. What was it Cas told you to beat her power?”  
Dean flattened his lips in a line. “I’m pretty sure it would probably only work for him, because―”  
“―Because the Priestess is using _his_ magic, yeah. We worked that one out together.”  
Anna caught Dean’s eye and then looked to Gabriel, listening in on the conversation and learning new shocking things as they spoke.  
“Okay, well, Cas said,” Dean pressed a flat hand to the door, as if feeling for vibration, “about the power of love,” Dean laughed, realising it sounded ridiculous out loud. Gabriel didn’t laugh, which Dean thought was unlike him.  
“Think really hard about Cas,” Gabriel suggested, quirking his head. “Worth a shot.”  
“You wanna do it?”  
Gabriel shook his head. “Your illegal operation, man, and your boyf―”  
“Friend!”  
“Sorry, yeah.” Gabriel stared Dean down, recognising he didn’t want Anna to know. “Your friend.”  
Dean let out a puff of air, then closed his eyes, other hand joining the first on the door. His mind zoned out the sound of the others breathing after a little while, as he concentrated.  
 _Cas’ smile when he saw you looking at the sky, at his creations, his art. His tears on your face. The heat of his skin as you hold him._  
The door trembled, and Dean was thrown off his game as he started, eyes opening. He blinked a few times, realising that the vibration meant it was working. Eyes falling shut once more, he kept on.  
 _The way he looks at you, like you’re the whole fucking world. The way he knows what you’re thinking, but not all the time. The way he moans, the way he wants to make you feel the same._  
The door was vibrating constantly now, rattling on its hinges.  
 _His laugh, the one that starts like a rumble. That way he’s better at everything than everyone but only needs it to enjoy himself. The way he’s... the way he’s a dude. The way you love how he’s a dude._  
The door ground in its setting, wood warping slightly. Dean stood firm, eyes melded shut. He breathed deep, and let a final wave of emotion wash through him, spinning down his hands and soaking into the wood.  
 _The way you love his hair, his smile, his laugh. The way you love how he touches you, how he wants to be with you as much as you want to be with him. How he loves you. Oh, fuck. How he loves you. And how you fucking love him._  
Both doors burst open, swinging wide on their hinges until they hit the inside wall. Dean ran through without hesitation, the others following as he closed the doors behind them.  
They stilled now, standing together in a line and taking in the view. This room was expansive. It must have taken up most of this floor of the castle. Everything was white, draped in sheets like Castiel’s room - but golden stripes edged the sheets, edged everything. The whole room shimmered with morning light, reflecting on white and gold, and on delicately-hewn furniture that stood purposelessly in every corner.  
Nothing looked like it had ever been used. Everything was clean, and completely empty of paraphernalia. There were no books, no bed, no vases of flowers. It was almost like she didn’t live here at all. Maybe she didn’t.  
“Okay, split up. Don’t start looking for the bottle, we’re after another room. The place she sleeps. It’ll probably be hard to find, but keep an eye out.” Dean walked off, hearing his troupe stepping away behind him, heading in various directions. “Look for traps, trick corridors, extra doors, hidden walls. Anything.”  
Gabriel called from the other side of the room, stepping around an empty white cabinet, “And careful what you touch, this stuff could be cursed.”  
“Cursed?” Anna echoed, withdrawing a hand sharply from a mirror she’d been about to slide to the side to see behind.  
Gabriel stepped out of Dean’s view, behind a painted bamboo room partition. “This room is _hella_ evil, you’re not getting that?”  
Anna shook her head, glancing to Andy, who was examining a wardrobe, trying to see behind it from the side, cheek almost to the wall.  
Dean pressed himself to find something obvious, like a worn part of the floor, somewhere Meg walked often. He went back to the door and stared out at the room again, taking in the line of windows that were on every damn side of the room, seemingly with nothing holding up the next floor. There was definitely a next floor, Dean knew that. But the windows couldn’t possibly hold that much weight.  
Magic, magic... think magic.  
“Guys, we’re in the wrong room.”  
Gabriel poked his head around the partition at Dean’s words, frowning. Anna walked to stand beside Dean, her entire person emanating a deep red, standing out vividly against the white. “How can we be in the wrong room?”  
Dean glanced at the room again, knowing it looked _right_ , what with all the white sheets, but, there was something missing. It wasn’t a part of the castle, it wasn’t really here. Either it was someplace else, or it was a diversion. They’d never find what they needed.  
“I think we should leave, come back in, see if it’s the same.”  
Andy sauntered back over, displeased. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  
Anna shook her head. “It does. Let’s do it.”  
Gabriel opened the door for them - or, tried. Dean nudged him out the way and only had to touch the door before it swung open, leading them right back where they’d left, in the wooden-panelled hallway.  
“Sure this is the same hallway?”  
Dean sniffed the air, one foot still in the white room. “Yeah.” He stepped back out, waiting for the others. Gabriel closed the door behind them, tugging on the handle until it clunked shut.  
“How’d you know?”  
“Nobody noticed how it didn’t smell of _anything?_ ”  
Andy sniffed the hallway wall, eyes rolled upwards as he considered it. “Smells like beeswax.”  
Dean nodded gently. “That room, it kinda felt like a... super-powered projection.”  
Gabriel grinned. “Like I did for your training.”  
“With the fleet of giant snakes, yeah.” Dean nodded, pointing a finger at Gabriel. “I kept telling him, it’s weird how I keep cutting their heads off, but I never smell the blood. Half a fight is what ends up crawling in your nose, the smell of blood you can’t get out your head for weeks, months - _years_ after.”  
Anna touched the door gingerly, running her hands down it. “A whole permanent room. Holy hell, she’s gotta be powerful. I can’t sustain that kind of thing for more than a few minutes.”  
“But you’re―”  
“―I know, I’m not the greatest at it, but even Gabe, you can’t.”  
Gabriel nodded, sombre. “Fifteen minutes tops.”  
Dean took a deep breath, putting his hands back on the door as Anna stepped away. Andy tapped his feet nervously, but a whack from Anna’s hand on his arm put a stop to that.  
 _Show us the place that keeps the perfume. The one in the blue bottle. The one I love. The one Cas loves._  
The doors swung open gently, far more welcoming this time. Dean felt like he was now friends with a door, and that was a pretty strange feeling.  
Stepping inside, Dean was pleased to find a completely different room, this one only the size of his or Castiel’s. This one was real. It was inside the castle.  
There was no white in sight. The windows were draped heavily with foreign cloth, woven with coloured stripes. A sturdy bed stood firm on the left of the room, sheets pinned from the posts and dangling right across the room; mostly orange, along with warm yellows. It was a beautiful room, really.  
The bed looked very comfortable, pillows adorning it in silks and satins, deep, rich colours. Bird cages hung from the ceiling, sat upon the floor, all golden. Trapped birds tweeted at the newcomers, hoping for attention.  
Dean had a sudden urge to run and get Castiel so they could have sex here. He battled it down; now was clearly not the time.  
“We should totally do it in here,” Gabriel said to Anna, but was quietened by her glare. Dean grinned. Maybe the two of them were better together than he’d thought. Anna was Gabriel’s Castiel.  
“I wanna grab something sweet and smoke it,” Andy said, touching a hanging braid that looped a curve above his head. “This room is _chill_.”  
Dean snapped to attention, realising they’d been standing here for a minute or so, not even moving. “Oh, shit.”  
“What?”  
“More magic, it’s... eating us. We gotta move, and quickly.”  
Anna clapped her hands, rubbing them as she inched forward, boots clumping on the dark wooden floor. “Where do we start?”  
“Um, drawers, dressing tables - somewhere she could get to easily, and often.”  
Anna started her search with a shelf by the door, opening tiny cubby holes and pulling out drawers. Gabriel dropped to his knees and looked under the bed, lying on his stomach. Andy stood in the middle of the room, looking at everything. Dean glanced at him and rolled his eyes. Naturally, Andy would avoid actually doing anything, of course he would.  
Dean began on a wardrobe, gently pulling the door open. His eyes fell on a rail full of white dresses, all similar. Lacy, silky, flowing things; high-collared, form-fitting to the hip, then dropping away in a soft sweep of material.  
Dean sniffed them - some smelt like perfume, others didn’t. The scent was old and faded, maybe from a few days past.  
There were small drawers in the wardrobe, and he pulled those out as well. They were filled with rings, each different; metal, bone - gold, silver, white.  
He closed the drawers and moved on.  
“Here - here, I’ve got it!” Anna cried, pulling a blue bottle from a dark-wood chest of drawers by the bed. She held it up for Dean to see from the other side of the room.  
“Hey, that’s it,” he said, turning back to close the wardrobe. Andy and Gabriel met him in the middle of the room, as Anna went back to close the drawer she’d gotten the bottle from, having set it on the top of an adjacent chest. She walked toward them, heading for the bottle, but as she walked her foot grazed the side of a birdcage.  
The cage burst open, its dainty golden rungs leaping from its base - the canary inside it grew tall, outward - getting fatter, featherier, yellower.  
Anna jumped back in shock as the cage whacked her foot; she stumbled backwards and was grabbed by Gabriel as they all crowded together on a rug. The bottle of perfume stayed, wobbling, on top of the chest of drawers, forgotten as they all locked eyes on the monster that was growing before them.  
In only ten seconds the canary was the height of a man, its beak the size of Dean’s head.  
“INTRUDERS,” it shouted, lashing its hand-sized tongue as it bellowed. Its voice was that of an adult human male, deep. It hopped on the spot like a bird on a branch might, adjusting its footing. The whole floor shook with its weight. “INTRUDERS!”  
Gabriel’s hands gripped Anna's shoulders so tightly she had to pull him off, taking his hands in hers instead. Dean knew they couldn’t run, not while the canary had seen them so clearly. Besides, they seemed to be rooted to the floor, by magic or by fear, Dean had no clue. Andy took the back of Dean’s shirt in a fist and whimpered.  
“Ga- Gabe,” Dean whispered, nudging his head to his friend, focus never leaving the shiny dark beads of the canary’s giant bulging eyes.  
“Right here, buddy,” Gabriel whispered back, his voice as weak as Dean’s knees.  
“INTRUDERS, INTRUDERS!”  
“Cloak us. Hide us with magic. _Now_.”  
Gabriel glanced to Anna, then dropped one of her hands, a hand finding Dean’s. Dean squeaked, looking down at it, but Gabriel hissed at him, and Dean gave in. Andy was holding his shirt; he should be covered too.  
“INTRUDERS?” The bird changed tone, unsure where its prized intruders had vanished to. Thank God, the angel magic worked in here.  
Andy nudged a hand into Dean’s back, hyperventilating on his shoulder. “Why aren’t we running, I would like to run, can we please run? The scary bird is looking at me.”  
Dean batted his head away, feeling his shirt getting damp from Andy’s breath. “We came for the perfume, we’re not leaving without it―”  
“ _Then let’s get it and get out of here!_ ”  
Dean edged a foot sideways on the rug, staring at the massive bird, who was still shouting his alarm call. “You wanna be the one to sneak around the giant bird to get the bottle?” He eyed the glass shape, still sitting atop the wooden chest. The bird stood between them and it.  
“Oh, right.”  
Dean heaved a breath, assuming he was going to be the one who had to do it. “Gabe, cover me, I’m going in.”  
He grabbed Andy’s hand from his back and turned to connect his and Gabriel’s hands, then with a deep breath, let their hands fall away from his.  
“INTRUDER!” the bird shouted triumphantly. “I SEE YOU!”  
Dean winced, desperately looking back to check why Gabriel hadn’t made him invisible. He saw nothing, only empty space, no other people between himself and the wardrobe. He turned back, eyeing the bird. It had not attacked anyone yet; maybe all it did was harmlessly shout at people.  
Dean made himself believe it, then stepped forward, hoping he could edge around its gigantic clawed feet and ruffling feathers. It hopped, and the floor shook again, ceiling hangings vibrating.  
There was a click, and the door to the room opened. Meg walked in. Her eyes fell upon Dean, and she only blinked before she turned back to close the door behind her, then strode a few steps toward Dean.  
“INTRUDER!”  
“Yes, thank you, Baz, I can see that.”  
“I FOUND HIM!”  
“Quiet, Baz.” She placed an open hand on the bird’s thick neck and it wilted, collapsing into a pocket-sized canary again, trapped in her hand.  
“But, intruder!” the bird said, its voice minimised to a tiny chirp. Meg bent to place Baz in its cage, collecting the golden spires back into a cage shape and shutting the door behind it. Baz looked very put out by this, hopping along its perch irritably.  
“Captain,” the Priestess said, eyebrows raised. Dean only gaped at her.  
Meg lowered her eyebrows again, face no longer showing surprise, but some kindly sort of menace. “I seem to be a little confused, Captain.” She took a few strides closer to him, head down on her steps. She looked up into his face, a pace away. “Do tell me what you’re doing in my room, won’t you?”  
“Well―”  
“Oh, my.” Meg took a step back. “Awfully sorry, old chap. Couldn’t quite―”  
Dean blinked, head pulling back in surprise at her abrupt change of demeanour. She was suddenly wobbling on her feet, looking tired. She tumbled past the birdcage, hands running along the tops of cabinets to keep herself up. Her hand found the bottle of perfume, wrapping around its neck. She brought it to Dean, eyes glazed over. “Take this,” she intoned, voice devoid of emotion. “You should have this.”  
Dean took it, swallowing. “Uh, th- thank you.”  
“You are welcome,” she said, flatly, words separated by a long pause, “pretty-boy.”  
Dean smirked. _Thank you, Andy._  
“I am... very...” Meg fell asleep where she stood, head rolling back as she fell against the bedpost. Dean leapt forward to grab her before she fell on Baz’s birdcage, dragging her onto her bed, heaping her over the mounds of pillows. She sank down between them, long dark hair covering her face.  
Dean let out a long sigh of relief, hands twisting around the cool glass in his hands. He heard a huff from behind him, turning to find Gabriel shaking his hands out, Anna bending forward over her knees, breathing heavily. Andy caught Dean’s eye, face pale. “Nrgh,” he muttered, before promptly sitting down on the ground and sobbing into his knees.  
“Let’s leave, now. Right now. Out, out.” Dean tried to shoo them to the door as a snore rose from the bed.  
It took a half-minute of bustling, but they all fell out into the hallway, heaving relieved breaths. The air out here seemed fresher, more real in their lungs.  
“She - she won’t remember that she saw you,” Andy huffed, leaning against the wall. “I guess she’ll be confused, but she won’t remember.”  
Dean looked down at the blue glass in his hands, and smiled. Job done.  
~  
Dean knocked on Castiel’s door, his hands behind his back.  
“Dean?”  
Dean grinned, realising that was the question every guest got when they knocked on this door. “Yeah, it’s me, Cas.”  
The door opened and Castiel looked overjoyed to see him, his eyes shining. He took Dean by the collar and brought him inside while smiling. “There’s nobody else here now, only you and I.”  
Dean licked his lips, eyes darting to Castiel’s mouth. “That’s great, Cas. I have something, actually.”  
“Have?”  
“I got you something.”  
Castiel tilted his head, hand sliding from Dean’s collar, dragging down his chest and rippling his shirt over him. “What is it?”  
“I know you told me not to,” Dean grinned, shuffling his feet, “and it would - what was it - exass-bate matters―”  
“Exacerbate?” Dean squinted and nodded quickly, about to continue, but Castiel dropped his hand away, mouth open a little in shock. “The perfume, Dean?”  
Dean swallowed and nodded again, bringing a hand forward and showing Castiel the bottle. Castiel only glanced at it before looking back at Dean. “Dean, that was a very bad idea.”  
“Andy made it so she wouldn’t remember. She won’t know.”  
Castiel held his gaze for a few long seconds, shoulders drawn back, but then sighed, relaxing, lips curving into a smile. “Was it really all that important?”  
Dean smirked, hand finding Castiel’s and slipping the bottle into it. “Yeah.”  
Castiel stood closer, eyes wandering over Dean’s face, coming to rest on his lips, then flicking to his eyes. “Thank you.”  
“Want to put some on?” Dean asked. He glanced at their hands, holding the bottle between them.  
Castiel passed the glass shape to Dean and held out his wrist. “Pour some on me?”  
Dean opened the stopper. He dribbled a line onto Castiel’s wrist, watching the clear rivulet run across Castiel’s arm and cling to his skin.  
Castiel rubbed his wrists together, eyes on Dean as he watched. Fingertips touched over his wrists, a weirdly sensual motion that made Dean’s jaw twitch as it relaxed.  
Castiel raised his wrist to his own face and inhaled, eyes falling closed, mouth opening.  
“As good as you remember?”  
“Better. It has an extra hint of illegally obtained.”  
Dean smiled, open-mouthed. “‘cause that always adds to it, yeah.”  
“You don’t think so?” Castiel asked, moving his wrist to Dean’s lips, letting him taste it on the air, breathing it in.  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, feeling something trembling in his lower gut. “Oh man, you’re right, that _is_ better.” He huffed, hands reaching to twine around Castiel’s arm, pulling him as close as he’d never dared the first time he’d breathed this scent on his skin.  
Maybe that was the first time, Dean thought. Maybe that was the first time he’d ever wanted to be lover to a man. When he wanted to taste his skin. It was the perfume, that’s what it was.  
He smirked and breathed in again, realising he didn’t care what led him here, only that this was, truly, where he was meant to be.  
Castiel kissed his own wrist, hand limp between his and Dean’s faces. Dean closed his mouth over the other side, tongue licking gently. It was bitter, potent straight from Castiel’s skin, only just dried. It tingled on his tongue, buzzing faintly.  
Castiel breathed out heavily, then inhaled again, breathing so deeply he overbalanced, dropping his wrist away as he tottered. Dean took him in his arms, laughing. “You’re gonna pass out if you keep breathing so much.”  
“But unless I breathe, I pass out also.”  
Dean kissed him, still tasting the bitterness on both their lips. “Not so deeply. And not so much.”  
Castiel groaned under his breath, lips clasping against Dean’s as he worked them together, hands raking through Dean’s hair. He pulled away an inch to nudge at Dean’s mouth, poking his tongue out to lick at it again briefly. He sighed, gulping down the scent before whispering, “I would very much like to make love to you.”  
Dean mumbled against him, smiling.  
“Now, Dean. Right now,” Castiel added firmly, staring at Dean from so close, in case he hadn’t got the message already.  
Dean’s smile widened. He’d been expecting this. He needed it himself as well. “How do you want it?”  
Castiel’s eyelids flickered, focusing on Dean’s parted lips. “I want to put you in my mouth. All of you.”  
Dean’s knees buckled a little, hips grinding gently into Castiel’s. He nodded, still nodding as he pulled away, not letting go of the bottle.  
“Where are you going?” Castiel asked, arms still wide as Dean left a space between them.  
“Naked, Cas.”  
“Oh, of course,” Castiel muttered, grabbing his white shirt and pulling it straight off his head. Dean stripped down, not caring to make a show of it, even though Castiel’s eyes were on him. He kicked his breeches off his foot and stood facing Castiel in a showdown of nakedness. Castiel ran his gaze down Dean’s body, and Dean tried not to move. He could feel his cock pulsing, not even needing to look down to see it standing to attention at the edge of his vision.  
Castiel was as slender as ever, hips forming a straight line from his shoulders to his thighs, the V of muscle between his torso and legs less pronounced in the daylight from the window. His navel dipped gently, hair running down from it and forming a dark dusting around the base of his cock. Between his legs, his member continued to raise itself firmly upright, veins starting to show as he went untouched. The head was swelling, spread like a crown around the tip, slit down the middle running with a drop of glistening liquid.  
Dean’s gaze rolled back up to Castiel’s face, locking eyes.  
“You’re still holding the perfume,” Castiel observed, voice growly with lust.  
Dean glanced at the bottle, seeing a glimmer of sweat on his hand where it held the glass. “I thought we could―”  
“Even oil-based perfume won’t work quite like proper oil does, Dean. If you wanted oil, Pamela brought me some―”  
Dean gawped, eyes dropping and examining the floor. “That wasn’t - no, that...” He licked his lips. “I just wanted to put some on the rest of you, maybe?”  
Castiel took a step closer to the bed, leg nudging the mattress. “Taste it on me?”  
Dean nodded, finding himself right up in Castiel’s space, crowding him. “Breathe you in.”  
Castiel fell back on the bed and shuffled backwards, legs parted around Dean as he kneed the mattress. Castiel lay down, feet still on the floor. “Do it.”  
Dean hummed an appreciative sound, then unstoppered the bottle, excited by even the squeaky popping sound it made. He knelt one leg on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to pour a thin trickle from the spout of the bottle, from high above so that it splished down Castiel’s torso. Dean stopped at his navel, watching it pool inside.  
He stoppered the bottle again and turned to place it on Castiel’s dressing table next to the bonsai knife, returning to find Castiel rubbing his chest, massaging the clear perfume into his skin, fingers dragging on his collarbone. Dean leant down, balls of his feet on the floor, toes just touching Castiel’s feet. He leant on one arm, hand flat on the bed. The other, his left, he ran down Castiel’s torso, fingers spread like gentle-tipped claws, fingernails not even long or sharp enough to feel. Castiel glanced at his hand, then took it, hand slapping over it to stop its course. Perfume splashed at the sudden movement, and Dean realised why he’d been stopped. Castiel had almost looked frightened for a moment.  
“Sorry,” he whispered, withdrawing his hand. Claws, too much like the Priestess.  
Castiel grabbed it firmly and pulled it back, resting it flat over a nipple, the point of it pressing into the middle of Dean’s palm. “It’s okay. Please don’t stop.”  
Dean sighed, lifting one leg and then the other, pushing them underneath Castiel’s thighs, so that Dean was kneeling right on the edge of the bed with his ass hanging over the side. He sat up, both hands free to touch now.  
He drew them over Castiel’s chest, thumbs dragging through the thin, watery liquid down his middle, pulling it out over his skin, slipping down Castiel’s arms. He touched everywhere, pressing the reservoir from his navel with a pass of his hand, rubbing it gently into Castiel’s pubic hair. Castiel whined as he did it, legs spreading around Dean, exposing every inch of himself to him.  
“One second, Cas, almost done,” Dean whispered, eyes on his hands as he stroked Castiel’s throat, pressing the scent into his skin. He moved down to Castiel’s legs, fingers moving across his inner thighs, making them tremble.  
“I need to touch you now,” Castiel sighed, eyes closed. “Please. I can’t stand not touching you.”  
Dean ran his second hand down Castiel’s arm, from its place at the back of his neck, down to the soft supple skin of his underarm.  
“But I haven’t even sniffed you yet―”  
“ _Please_ , I want you in my mouth. I need to touch myself.”  
Dean glanced at Castiel’s erection, seeing its constant leaking. It dripped thick fluid down onto Castiel’s hip. His own cock was straining to be touched, but Dean found himself too enthralled by the wafting scent of that divine perfume to realise how much he was aching.  
“You move first, I’ll follow,” he said, since Castiel was wrapped around him. Castiel bucked in a burst of movement, hurrying to the middle of his bed and sitting there with his legs apart, expression somewhat dazed. Dean clambered up to him, finding hands shoving at him to lie down. He didn’t fight it, only lay back and shuffled to get comfortable.  
Castiel lifted one of Dean’s thighs and crawled under it, sitting himself a half-pace away from his lover’s open legs. His eyes were darker than Dean had ever seen them, clearly anticipating what was to come. He wasn’t even sure how this was going to go.  
“I will try this as you did to me,” Castiel told him, head dipping as his voice strained his throat, sounding painfully deep. “Please bear in mind that it will be terrible.”  
Dean let out a tiny laugh, hand pressing to his head as he feared for his dick. His hand smelt of perfume, very different to how it smelt on Cas; less sweet, less unplaceable. On Dean, it smelled like wildflowers, summer dust, the burnt lightning smell that lingers after a storm. It was nowhere near amazing as how it smelled on Castiel’s skin.  
Castiel lowered his head, leaning forward with his legs apart as he kneeled, a hand pulling along his length as he just looked at Dean spread before him. Dean set his legs wider, a hand beckoning Castiel closer, silently begging him to let him have some relief. Castiel took the hint and moved forward, a hand bracing himself on the bed, gaze darting between Dean’s groin and his eyes. His other hand pressed onto Dean’s inner thigh, as Dean had done to him. Dean couldn’t hold back a thrust of his hips, his cock driving him upward, wanting. Castiel increased the pressure on his leg, ready to hold him down if Dean was about to hurt him. Dean knew he would. He knew he would buck, and he knew he would choke Cas if he wasn’t careful.  
“Are you ready?” Castiel asked him, so close to Dean’s cockhead that he could feel hot breath ghosting over him.  
Dean shook his head. “Do it, do it―”  
Castiel wrapped his lips around Dean’s cockhead, much like an open-mouthed kiss. Dean keened and his head fell back, muttering curses under his breath. Just with that silky, wet touch, he became aware of every inch of his own skin, tingling and flushing hot all over.  
Castiel opened his jaw a little more, licking a stripe the first inch or so down down Dean’s raphe, the skin there giving under the pressure. Castiel’s eyes were closed, only focusing on how to move his mouth, how to breathe. He swallowed around Dean, and Dean screeched―  
“TEETH! Oh my God, _teeth_ , Cas. _Jesus_ ―”  
Castiel’s mouth popped off him, gasping. “I’m sorry, I’m sor―”  
Dean breathed out a whine, eyes clenched shut. “It’s fine, it’s f- you’ll get it.” He exhaled a long, calming stream of air through his lips, pulled in an ‘o’.  
Castiel swallowed and hesitantly put his lips back around Dean, teeth pulled well out of the way now. He attempted to push further down, Dean’s cock sliding thickly along his flattened tongue, feeling the muscle shivering against him.  
Dean bit his lip, pleasure covering the pain, heat enveloping him, wet and soft and trembling. He snuffled out a gasp as Castiel pulled back up, lapping at his crown. The base of his cock remained untouched, and now Castiel’s hand came up, slick from his own pre-come, wrapping around Dean’s width. Castiel jerked him, once, twice, then licked him once more.  
Dean felt his thighs shaking, hands curling into the sheets. The smell of perfume in the room was intoxicating now; he felt dizzy from it, combined with the pressure that sank over his cock again.  
“Ohhh, _Cas_...”  
Castiel pulled up, a strand of saliva turning cold as he nodded up. “D-did I hurt you?”  
Dean shook his head, cheeks touching each side of the bed beside him as he wished Castiel would wrap his lips around him again.  
“Oh, you were expressing pleasure,” Castiel sighed, relieved. “I apologise in advance if I... mmh - I do s-something wrong.” Dean could hear the wet slap of skin as Castiel jacked himself for a few strokes, letting slip a tiny whine at the back of his throat. Then Dean gasped out loud as his mouth found him again, Castiel’s hand tugging him up as his tongue pressed down.  
Saliva ran downward between Dean’s legs, tickling the hair between his thighs; his buttocks clenched as it dribbled between them, and he moaned. Castiel made a slimy sucking sound, something that should sound disgusting, but Dean felt himself pulse into Castiel’s mouth, groaning as Castiel lapped at the taste, swallowing - without teeth this time.  
Castiel swallowed again, then again, having worked out how to make Dean groan endlessly, thrashing his head from side to side, legs shaking weakly on the bed. The silk sheets were so bunched in his hands that he couldn’t feel any of his fingers, each separated by a line of cloth.  
Castiel attempted to suck him deeper inside his mouth, and Dean could feel his throat straining to manage it.  
“Cas - don’t―”  
Castiel gagged briefly, withdrawing completely as he gasped for breath with his head turned to the side. Dean gulped, watching somewhat guiltily. His cock throbbed, needing the pressure back on him. Dean reached between his own legs while Castiel collected himself. He felt the wetness of saliva on him, slick and slippery; he could easily slide himself in his fist, almost losing his grip completely as he jerked too fast, half of his fist off the end of his length.  
“I can continue, if you wish,” Castiel said, voice sinfully deep. The gruffness of before was now laced with a rich, heavy softness, like wine, the liquid of Dean’s pre-come in his throat. Dean felt himself twitch in his own hand. He nodded and dropped his fist, wiping his hand on the sheets. Then he grabbed for a pillow and set it behind his head so he could watch better.  
Castiel turned his head this way and that, as if trying to find how to best position himself to take Dean so deeply.  
“You don’t have to, Cas, you can just stay at the top, I don’t mind,” Dean lied.  
Castiel smirked at him. “You want to be right at the back of my throat when you orgasm,” he said, very perceptive of him.  
“If - if you say so,” Dean conceded, smirking right back at his angel.  
Castiel tilted his head a few more times, head of his cock disappearing into his fist as he considered Dean.  
“Could we try another position?” Castiel asked, eyes flicking to Dean’s, squinting.  
“Should I stand up, or...?”  
Castiel licked his lips, pumping himself again, slowly. He was squeezing himself quite hard, Dean noticed. “I have an idea,” Castiel said, clambering forward. He edged around Dean, on hands and knees, dick hanging low, thick and swollen between his legs. Dean watched him, lying back again. He didn’t know what Cas was doing, but―  
Castiel climbed over Dean, legs parting over his chest, ass hovering over Dean’s face. Castiel looked at him from above Dean’s cock, meeting Dean’s eyes upside-down from between his legs.  
“Does this work?” Castiel asked, blinking.  
Dean nodded jerkily, suddenly very excited. He glanced at Castiel’s cock, hanging backwards over his face, and unconsciously lifted his head to lick it. It tasted a bit like the bitter perfume - transferred from their hands as they had touched themselves. Mostly, he tasted the tang of pre-come, and the sweetness of Castiel’s saliva.  
Castiel sighed and ground his hips, cock nudging Dean’s lips as he lay below it. Dean nosed it, feeling hot wetness spread over the bridge of his nose. Castiel moaned and swallowed Dean whole.  
Dean groaned open-mouthed, lower lip brushing Castiel’s cockhead, pre-come smearing into his mouth. He was so enraptured by the mouth around him, Castiel only blundering the movement for a few seconds before he worked out how to best position his head; chin perpendicular to his chest, Dean’s cock pulled straight up in the air, tugged back every time he slipped from Castiel’s mouth. Castiel managed a few short bobs of his head, moving slick and fast around Dean. He slowed, drinking Dean into him deeply, and Dean felt tonsils pressed to him. Castiel coughed a few times, pulling up to breathe hard before going back down, always leaving Dean groaning and writhing.  
The insistent nudge at Dean’s cheeks became too constant to ignore; pre-come dripped onto his lips, balls dragging over his face. He reached his chin up and let Castiel’s testicles fall into his mouth, not able to take them all before he kissed them back out again, licking with a flat tongue.  
Castiel moaned around Dean, and Dean curled up into him in reaction, back arching. Castiel smoothed a calming hand down Dean’s inner thigh, bristling his hair. A finger found Dean’s perineum, rubbing gently, his skin slippery.  
Dean sighed and licked a long line up Castiel’s cock, from the tip, dragging heat all the way up to the base, skin wrinkling under Dean’s tongue. The hair there smelled intensely of the perfume, and Dean breathed it in, mouth open. Castiel nudged hips into his face again, and Dean pressed his nose deeply into his skin, inhaling.  
He was musky, the scent of male, like the old leather of a saddle. The perfume clouded it, like a rainstorm still in progress, the haze so thick it made it almost impossible to gauge any other scent. It was somewhat like knowing everything and nothing all at once - Dean knew it smelt like nothing but pleasure, and felt like nothing but pleasure, but his mind was empty, unable to think straight. Castiel smelled like mountain dew, and the sand on a beach, and dark like a shadow.  
Dean licked him, hair bristling on his tongue; bittersweet perfume simmering on his taste buds. He pulled away from Castiel’s base, nose nudging upwards, placing a line of soft, wet kisses along his skin. Castiel angled his hips down so Dean could lick at his perineum; then Castiel swallowed around him again, right at Dean’s base, lips kissing his brown hair. Dean whimpered, held back by firm hands as he tried to buck. Castiel swirled and lapped his tongue, no longer bobbing his head, only holding his position and trying not to drool - his lips were swollen, neck moving quite stiffly as he began to nuzzle Dean.  
The kisses Dean placed between Castiel’s legs made the other man tremble, vibrating against his face. Dean loved how much he was loving it, breathing turned heavy as Castiel shivered over him. Castiel huffed against Dean, his mouth slid away from Dean’s cock - Dean moaned deeply at its loss. But then, Dean felt Castiel’s tongue return, rolling in circles around his cockhead, stirring him. God, that felt good. He groaned an open kiss against Castiel’s ass, teeth dragging playfully over the bottom of his buttocks.  
Castiel pressed his ass into Dean’s face, keening, his hand squeezing Dean’s cock as Dean licked his anus, tantalisingly slowly.  
“Oh - oh, Dean...”  
Dean pushed words against Castiel’s skin, breath ghosting over the slick of his cooling saliva, “You like that?”  
“Y-yes - oh, God, _yes_ ―” He broke off in almost a scream, as Dean took the back of his hips in his hands, pulling him into his face. He covered Castiel’s hole with his open mouth, tongue swirling and poking and licking.  
“Oh Dean, Deeeeaan―” Castiel gasped, short of breath. He pumped Dean’s cock wildly, too distracted to wrap his mouth around him. “Oh... oh, fuck,” he sighed, forehead coming to rest on Dean’s hipbone, breathing heavily on his skin.  
Dean kissed him, lips pressing gently on the insides of Castiel’s thighs, the part that was almost hairless. Castiel rolled down into him, whimpering for more. Dean sank a soft bite on Castiel’s leg, then pulled Castiel to him again, licking a deep line through the groove between his thighs. Castiel sobbed and shivered against Dean, hand unable to move on Dean’s cock any more.  
“Don’t - don’t stop now, Cas, _please_ ,” Dean whined, smushing his mouth back to the flesh before him, rolling tongue and lips into the other man, pre-come dribbling down his chin now.  
“I... I can’t―”  
Dean pulled away from Castiel with a wet sloppy sound, swallowing and wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna come, I need you on me...”  
Castiel shook his head, chin rocking into Dean’s lower abdomen, but he lifted up anyway, puckered lips pressing a kiss to Dean’s cock, trailing a line of them down the side. Dean panted for a moment, savouring the combination of perfumed musk filling his head, and the slick wetness of Castiel’s mouth once again swallowing him down, right to the back of his throat. Dean marvelled at and silently praised how easily Castiel had become an expert; this was the best oral sex he’d ever received, and he hadn’t even come yet.  
Dean caressed the curve and crest of Castiel’s perineum with a lengthy lick, flicking the tip of his tongue at Castiel’s hole, making him grunt around Dean’s cock. Dean loved how everything he did here made it better for him, too - every lick turned into a suck on his own dick, every mouthing kiss turned into a thick, wet swallow around him. Every moan became a shivering groan against his base.  
Castiel pulled off him suddenly, lifting his own hips away from Dean so they could see each other between Castiel's legs, Castiel upside-down, lips red and swollen, pupils fully blown. He was panting heavily, unable to stop licking his lips.  
“Dean, I―” he swallowed hard, then began panting again, “I want to come... all over y-your face, just,” he moaned, mouth closing as he writhed under his own charge, whole body curling before he stuttered back, “just hold me above you, point me in the right direction?”  
Dean nodded, jaw slack and face damp. Castiel bucked gently, turning his mouth back to worshipping Dean’s cock, sliding him back inside with a swift gulp.  
Dean thrashed for a short second before taking hold of Castiel’s hips, breathing against the base of his cock again, tingling fiercely at the scent of perfume once more. He reached his fingers up to take Castiel’s length in hand, tugging it a few times. Hot pre-come ran down his wrist, having been collecting for a while, untouched.  
Castiel moaned again, the vibrations shaking Dean to his core; he gasped, tongue curling back inside his mouth. Castiel’s hips jerked forward, running himself slick inside Dean’s hand. Dean explored how he looked so close up, now that he wasn’t concentrating on putting his mouth on him. Castiel’s raphe was crinkled thinly all the way down, lost in the tiny line of hair between the tops of his thighs. His cock was redder than before; thick veins pulsed, blue in some places. The weight of it throbbed hotly in Dean’s hand, and he could actually feel the pulses as he pumped him.  
Dean turned him downward, pointing him over his mouth, letting the head drag over his lips. He kissed the tip, smirking as Castiel gasped around Dean’s cock, coughing a little before swallowing hard and sucking harder than ever before.  
Dean yelped, hand sliding faster on Castiel, both nearing their climax. Castiel’s hips were jumping, fucking himself into Dean’s hand as he barely moved it, just holding his fist tight around him. Castiel moaned, again and again, whimpering and sighing lowly around Dean, rhythm returning, tongue wrapping around Dean’s length, massaging him.  
Dean felt Castiel’s balls tighten, thighs shivering around him - and then semen was spilling over his chin, wet and hot and shakily thrown over his face; it collected on his upper lip, dribbling slowly down his cheek. Some slipped into his mouth as Castiel rode through his orgasm, head bobbing ever faster over Dean, moaning endlessly, head tilting one way and then the other.  
Dean lapped at the liquid in his mouth, again tasting Castiel’s spikily bitter come; he rolled it over his tongue, feeling it gather and spread, thickening in his saliva. He swallowed, opening his mouth again to breathe heavily, eyes almost closed.  
Castiel slurped, changing his angle so his chin was turned up a bit more; jaw straining extra hard to keep his teeth out of the way. He mumbled words around Dean’s cock, only with a moan and his tongue moving strangely. It was of course unintelligible, but Dean groaned anyway, just loving the way Castiel vibrated when he used his voice. It wasn’t like with women. Castiel’s voice was deep and throbbed against him, grinding into him from his centre.  
Dean released a long, deep note, hand stroking Castiel’s hip as he kept on sucking, huffing breaths over Dean’s hair. Castiel never ceased his drooling; wetness seeped from his mouth and slid between Dean’s legs, rubbed into his skin by Castiel’s hand, fingers still exploring ever so gently. One finger brushed his hole, slick and hot, and oh _God_ ―  
“Shit, Cas, ‘m―”  
Dean bit his lip, bucking uncontrollably - Castiel held him down, wet hand touching the soft skin below Dean’s hipbone, thumb stroking it as the rest of his palm held him to the bed.  
“Caaaaas... Gonna come, gonna....” He wheezed, a hand reaching up behind his head, stretching through the sheets and brushing his fingertips on silk as he fell apart. Legs folded outward, toes curled into the bedcovers; one hand reached for nothing, the other held fast to the scrunching material, dampening under his hand, straining against his tight hold.  
“Fuck Cas fuck fuck fuck - _mmmmmnh_ ―”  
He bucked wildly. Castiel didn’t bother to hold him back this time, head rolling with Dean’s hips, mouth around him as he swallowed everything Dean poured into his mouth. He sucked every last drop from him, pulling him dry. Dean shivered and sighed out a pitiful whimper, then lay still.  
Castiel lapped at him for a few more seconds, then let him drop free from his lips with a wet flop, his stiffness waning. Dean felt heavy recuperating breaths against his hips, making way for tiny kisses pressed against the tender skin. Castiel’s lips were so swollen, so wet; Dean couldn’t tell lip from tongue. Slow, wet kissing noises made their way to Dean's ears and fuzzed inside his head. He was completely blissed out and lethargic, feeling himself relax so much that he began falling asleep.  
Castiel climbed off him, swaying heavily to thump down beside him, neck resting on Dean’s arm, spread out by his side. Dean felt hot breath on his shoulder. He peeked an eye open, chancing upon Castiel’s blue eyes, still darkened by lust, but far brighter now.  
Castiel blinked a couple of times, then reached a hand to cup his aching jaw, clicking it side to side uncomfortably. He panted slowly, licking reddened lips. “That was... more dif-... difficult th-... than it looked, when you did it,” he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
Dean licked his upper lip, a speck of semen falling on the tip of his tongue. Castiel’s eyes tracked it, and Dean actually watched his pupils expanding and drowning some of the blue again. Castiel turned over, holding himself over Dean’s body with their lips inches apart. He surveyed the canvas that was Dean, painted with Castiel’s own pleasures.  
Castiel lowered his face, not licking at the liquid as Dean expected, but rolling his lips into it; not a kiss, but just a nudge. He seemed to be nuzzling Dean, dragging semen over his face aimlessly, transferring it to Castiel’s lips and cheeks, crinkling between their stubble.  
Dean nodded his chin upward, helping him out with whatever it was he was doing. They smeared each other with mess; it trailed between their faces, sticky as it thickened. Castiel moaned under his breath, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. Dean himself felt very hot, face burning. They kissed, more tongue than lip, lapping gently and tasting, transferring semen from their lips to each other’s tongues.  
Castiel dipped his head down and nosed at Dean’s throat, heat trailing on his skin, his chin barely stubbled as he’d recently shaved. Dean gulped, knowing Castiel loved it as his throat pulled up, dragging skin over his collarbone.  
Castiel ran a stripe of his tongue up Dean’s neck, over his chin and to his lips, where he kissed him again, smacking and sore. Dean’s face was wet and sticky, and Castiel only added to this as he stroked Dean’s cheek with a saliva-damp hand, fingers spread around his jaw and ear.  
Dean sighed, eyes opening as Castiel broke the kiss. They looked at each other for a while. Dean admired how Castiel looked beautiful even covered in smudges of his own semen, sheens of saliva and pre-come on his cheeks and jaw. His lips were cock-swollen, deep red against Castiel’s paler skin. He kept his mouth open, still breathing heavily, continuously licking his own lips.  
“That - was...” Dean managed, before feeling his eyes closing, too much effort to continue.  
Castiel kissed him hotly in agreement, then collapsed beside him, too tired to roll over. Dean stroked his back, hand running over heated, slightly damp skin.  
“Jesus I need a bath,” Dean huffed in one breath of air, ending in a tiny chuckle.  
Castiel nodded, nose poking at the inside of Dean’s arm. “We should... would you like to...” Castiel was unable to finish his questions, nor summon the energy to make them sound like questions.  
Dean turned his head to look at him, a finger going to brush a thick lock of dark hair from Castiel’s forehead, before combing him gently. “Bath? Together?”  
Castiel nodded twice, the second so weak it only felt like a nudge. His eyes were shut, hands relaxed against Dean.  
Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, two firm taps. It was the smaller door, so neither of them panicked. Castiel opened his eyes though, startled. He said nothing, perhaps waiting for whoever it was to go away.  
“Castiel, are you in there? You haven’t run off doing something silly again, have you?” It was Cupid. Castiel relaxed, eyes closing again. Dean glanced to his lips, wondering if Cupid would leave if he got no reply.  
But no, the door clicked open, and Dean heard the bustle of clothing and the wicker creak of a laundry basket as Cupid came in. Dean was too tired to cover himself, too enthralled by Castiel’s fucked-out expression to look away.  
“Oh, goodness.”  
Dean swallowed, feeling eyes on him. Now it was no longer a case of not being able to look away from Castiel, but not wanting to. He didn’t want to see what expression Cupid was wearing. There he and Castiel lay, naked and in such a private moment, covered in fluids and juices and God knows what. Dean lay with his legs slumped down, slightly parted, with his feet tangled in the sheets. One of his arms remained above his head, relaxed and slowly numbing.  
“I’ll get a bath going for you, shall I?” Cupid said, and Dean twinged. Castiel must have said something in his mind - or, of course, Cupid had seen them and used his common sense.  
Dean thanked his foresight anyway; any bath he and Castiel would have, would have been cold, but with Cupid’s magic, they’d have a full tub of hot water, and few things could sound more enticing to Dean at the moment.  
Cupid could heal without becoming tired, something the other angels couldn’t, but everyday magic, like running a bath, would be what fatigued him. Dean was grateful, certainly.  
“Hot bath all set for you, more hot water in the jug. I’d get in there quick before it gets too cold.” Cupid stood at the foot of the bed, hands probably on his hips. Dean raised his numbing arm and gave Cupid a thumbs-up, dropping his hand back to his side exhaustedly.  
“Get cleaned up sharpish, Dean, you have training to oversee.” And with that, Cupid left, door shutting with a quiet thump behind him.  
Dean sighed, long and shaky. “You wanna get up, Cas?”  
Castiel swallowed, eyes still closed. “I wanna stay here, forever.”  
Dean chuckled, heaving himself up on an elbow and turning to kiss Castiel’s mucky cheek. “You’d be really gross in a week, I’ll tell you that. Come on, bath.” He patted Castiel’s ass as he shuffled himself to the end of the bed, Castiel groaning as the arm he’d been using for a pillow slid away. Dean stood on heavy legs and reached over to grab Castiel by the hips, dragging him towards him. He came easily, silk sheets wrinkling as he went. He gave in and uncrumpled, more like a human once more, rather than a ragdoll.  
Castiel sat up at the end of the bed and looked up at Dean, forcing his eyes to stay open enough to see him. He smiled wickedly, one half of his exhausted mouth creeping higher than the other. Dean smiled and pulled him up by sticky hands, taking his floppy body by the lower back and under the legs, pulling him into his arms, up off the bed.  
Castiel shrieked as Dean picked him up, but Dean laughed, watching Castiel’s head turn this way and that, trying to work out why he was floating. He snuck an arm around Dean’s neck and relaxed as Dean carried him to the washroom, kicking the door shut behind them.  
Dean set Castiel down in the tub, a swell of water escaping from all around the top as he sank his legs under the surface. Castiel looked up at him, happier than Dean had ever seen him. It wasn’t even on his face, he was too tired to move his mouth more than a tiny crease at the edges; it was all in his eyes, wide and glowing from within.  
Dean climbed in beside him, taking up the rest of the room in the round wooden tub. Water splashed onto the floor in thin ribbons, slopping as Dean got comfortable.  
Dean stared at his angel and his angel stared back. They each took a minute to consider how they felt in this moment. Warm, blissed, and completely, totally, over-the-moon happy.  
This was contentment. And it was perfect.  
~x~  
“Um.” Dean stopped talking, and Sam sat and waited.  
It was a good few seconds before he realised Dean didn’t intend to continue. “What, you’re not gonna tell me all about how you shared a bath?” he asked flatly, only just hiding his surprise. “You’ve told me every other squicky detail, and that’s where you stop?” Sam grinned, watching Dean’s eyelids flicker as he thought.  
Dean swiped his tongue over his lips and shook his head very gently. “It was... it was really private, okay?”  
Sam shrugged, “What, more private than all your filthy sex romps?”  
Dean looked away, eyes scanning the lake, a small flock of birds swooping over it. “Yeah, actually. Nothing special happened, I mean, it was just...”  
He licked his lips again, sighing through his nose. “He washed me, I washed him, we didn’t talk. That was it.”  
Sam was about to reply but saw the glaze over Dean’s eyes, a wistful cloud over him. He shook his head and went ahead and asked anyway: “What was so private about it, exactly?”  
Dean flicked a glance to Sam, then stared down at Sam’s boots as he spoke, “It kind of felt like a different kind of bonding. Not sexual, not platonic. Not romantic, not really. It was just... beyond intimate. He touched every part of me, I did the same for him.  
“Our hands just...” Dean stopped to curve a hand gently through the air, as if pressing into another person’s skin, “learned each other,” he said, and smiled softly. “We were in there until the water got cold.”  
“Didn’t you have training to teach?”  
Dean laughed, nodding. “Yeah, I was two hours late.”  
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you really weren’t that into the whole Captain thing, were you?”  
“Guess not,” Dean smiled. “But man, when I did get there, I was practically _high_. Jeez, I was just - happy outta my flippin’ _mind_.”  
“Well that’s good, right?”  
Dean shrugged. “Uh. Sure.” He grinned, staring off into the middle-distance again.  
~x~  
“Whoosh!” Dean swung his sword through the air, making sounds with his mouth. “Swushhh!”  
“Uh, Dean?”  
“Yeah-huh?”  
Anna narrowed her eyes at him, tapping him on the shoulder. Dean turned to meet her concerned gaze, actually feeling the strain around his eyes as they were opened so widely. He felt insanely lively, almost vibrating in his boots.  
“Dean, are you okay?”  
“Never better, sweetheart.”  
Anna recoiled. “ _Sweet_ heart?!”  
Dean gaped, jaw dropping at his own slip of the tongue. “Whoa, that was inappropriate. My apologies, my dear lady,” he said, beaming at her as he bowed, hand turning in an exaggerated twirl.  
Gabriel came to stand beside Anna, looking down on Dean as he slowly unfolded himself, giggling. “Uh, dude, did you eat some weird-looking mushrooms or something?”  
Dean shook his head, swinging his sword like a wagging tail behind him, not even looking at it. “Just, good mood.”  
“Yeah, I can see that. You know you’re hella late, right?”  
Dean shrugged, eyes bugging as he pursed his lips. “Nobody died without me, I’ll bet?”  
Gabriel glanced round at the cliques that had formed within the Guard; Raphael with Virgil, Uriel, Walt and Roy; Jody with Inias and Garth, the three of them trying to fight each other all at the same time, laughing; Hastur on her own, shooting crossbows repeatedly at the same spot on a target, knocking the previous arrow loose. Balthazar watched her, giving advice that was sensibly ignored. Charlie and Rat sat together on the wooden bench at the side, watching the others and talking. Gordon approached the latter two and instructed them to get back to training, and they reluctantly did so.  
“We’re not falling apart at the seams, if that’s what you mean. But we could do with some direction.”  
“Gordon’s got this, it’s cool.”  
Gabriel glared at Dean, clearly unamused. “Dean, I don’t think anyone’s ever been sacked from this job. But I wouldn’t want to be the first. Get your ass in gear.”  
Dean grinned broadly, laughing. “You said ‘ass’. Hehe.”  
Anna glanced at Gabriel, trying not to chuckle. “Give him something to tell everyone; his brain is obviously not functioning right. He probably sniffed too much perfume.”  
Gabriel sighed, grabbing Dean by his padded leather shoulders, and hauled him to the middle of the unfocused crowd of soldiers. “Tell them to pair up or something. Pick a partner who can challenge them.”  
Loudly, Dean repeated Gabriel’s exact words, in Gabriel’s voice. Including the ‘them’ in the sentence. He ended with a giggle that had him doubling over his knees, gasping for breath.  
“That’s _really_ what you’re telling us, Winchester?” Raphael challenged, stepping forward. “You ‘earned’ your Captaincy, and that’s all you can come up with? I’ve seen children with better teaching skills.”  
Looking up into Raphael's dark, bony face, Dean sobered a little, though his eyes still shone with amusement as he said, “You wanna take this class for me, asshole?”  
Raphael pursed his lips, lowering his chin as he stared Dean down. “As the honour is rightfully mine, I cannot decline. Of course, I thank you for your gratitude.”  
“No, what wasn’t what I―”  
Raphael had already turned to the Guard, voice authoritative as he raised a commanding hand. “I require two challengers, for a fight to the death. I will buy the winner lunch.” He grinned, chuckling in a threatening manner.  
Nobody said a word, all of the Guards staring at the men in the middle of the court. Dean glanced around, then huffed. “You gotta be kidding me if you think anyone’s gonna take that seriously―”  
“Winchester, tell me _this_ : in a real fight against real enemies, is it a dance? Is it a play fight?”  
Dean was hard-pressed not to answer in the negative. “Hell no.”  
“Then what part of a real fight is not required from practice? How do you ever expect to Captain a sodden bunch of childish misfits by way of wooden swords?”  
Dean quirked a lip, sneering. “Your sword ain’t even wooden, Raffie. Limp as a biscuit dunked in milk.”  
Raphael raised his eyebrows, sneering right back. “Should I take your low snub as a challenge, Winchester? A fight to the death, here and now.” Raphael looked far too pleased. He stepped back a few paces, crowd retreating as he backed into them, arms spread like a crucifix, a welcoming gesture to Dean’s attack.  
“What - but―”  
“Are you _scared_ , Winchester?” Raphael asked, voice turned mocking like a mean-spirited child. “No Mommy to run home to, to cry into her skirts. Or maybe she had no skirts, only a simple dress, one she could lift easily to pleasure the men who paid her.”  
Dean didn’t know how to react to that. Nobody had ever made that accusation before. To be honest, he didn’t find it that insulting. “So what if she was that - a whore?” he spat, grinning, stepping forward with a heavy pace. “You’re too low-minded and goddamn stupid to work out how people survive in this world. If that’s what gets you some dough, that’s what the fuck you do with your time.” Dean shook his head, spinning his sword and checking to see Gabriel and Anna were well away from them. They looked on in a kind of pale horror.  
“People like that are dirt beneath my feet, Winchester. As are all humans.”  
Walt and Roy glanced at each other with their arms folded, then both shrugged and kept watching, intrigued.  
“I’m sorry you think that,” Dean said, stepping around Raphael in a circle, a wildcat sizing up his attacker. Raphael mirrored him, stepping lazily, his guard down.  
“Attack me now, Winchester. I grow tired of your banter.”  
Dean rolled his shoulders, bringing his sword up to an attack position. He launched forward, but was smacked away by a simple flick of Raphael's weapon.  
“Surely you learned your lesson last time this happened, _Captain_ ,” Raphael hissed. “You are no match for my magic and skill.”  
“As I recall,” Dean said, Sabbath screaming in a long drag across the edge of Raphael’s blade, “I won that fight.”  
“By mere chance.”  
“By using what I had, same as you.”  
Raphael snorted. “And what do you have that I have not?” He parried another blow effortlessly, but Dean was not shaken.  
“Friends.”  
Raphael was distracted for a brief moment as he glanced at Uriel, Virgil, Walt and Roy. The two humans shook their heads, Uriel shrugged. Virgil pointedly looked at the ground, inclining his head respectfully, but clearly indicating that, no, he was not a friend. Merely an ally.  
Dean took Raphael’s turned head as an opportunity to advance, the point of his sword pressing into the angel’s sternum, only deep enough to pierce the top layer of leather. Raphael looked at the silver blade distastefully. He swiped it free with a hand, not even touching it.  
They clashed blades again, not speaking again for a minute.  
Then Dean smirked at the angel, eyebrows quirking in a frankly flirtatious manner. “Your wooden sword seems a heck of a lot more wooden right now, I must be doing something right,” Dean purred, sliding his sword along Raphael's outstretched one, twirling his own in his hand and making them shiver together.  
“Your metaphor is petty, Winchester.”  
“Petty is hot sometimes,” Dean snarked, head tilting playfully. He was clearly making Raphael uncomfortable, which made him positively buoyant with amusement, on top of the heady bliss he’d already been feeling. “I know you like it dirty, don’t you?”  
Raphael’s eyelids flickered, hearing the chuckles of the crowd. Dean kept up his movement, rubbing his sword on Raphael's, metal hissing as it slid. “Nice and slow, oh yeah.”  
Gabriel laughed out loud, slapping his own thigh. Dean winked at him and stepped again, swapping his blade to the other side of Raphael's. “I know you like it rough, you like it fast, you like it where nobody can see you.”  
Dean’s eyes narrowed, anger starting to bubble under the laughter. “You mess with people who won’t complain, who have nobody to cry to. No Mommy with skirts they can hide under.  
“The poor, the weak, the helpless.” Dean slashed his sword at Raphael along with his words, driving him back, using the angel’s shock to his advantage. “ _Dirt beneath your feet_ ,” Dean hissed, right up against Raphael's face as he leered at him, swords shaking between them as they both pushed incredible pressure to their blades. “You’re a rapist, and a murderer, and I don’t care what you think. You’re dirt beneath us all.”  
Dean shoved Raphael off, pushing him hard into the gathered crowd, who did nothing to catch him, letting him fall into the dust with a heavy thump. He looked up at Dean from the ground, eyes shocked. Dean stepped up to him, slowly, boots toeing the sand beside Raphael’s hip. “I hope you die slowly and painfully. You will _never_ be Captain. You don’t deserve anything except damnation.”  
Dean strode away, leaving the crowd and heading back for the castle, sheathing his sword. He was just passing Anna and Gabriel when he realised he heard the sound of applause. He smirked, glad nobody could see his face. His good mood was increased tenfold.  
He turned the corner, now out of sight of the Guard, then heaved a heavy breath, hands on his knees. He was dizzy with the blinding optimism that coursed through him. He could do this. He could be Captain. He could do anything.  
He laughed out loud and straightened up, walking for the castle doors. He felt like seeing Cas. He wanted to kiss him and share his elation. He had always known his smile was infectious, and he wanted to see that smile on Castiel.  
The stairs felt like clouds, and he was running up to Heaven. The higher he climbed, the merrier he got, and by the time he reached the floor before Castiel’s, he was singing. He didn’t know what he was singing, possibly it was something he made up on the spot. One day he’d learn to play a lyre, and he could sing it to Castiel. Castiel could sing it with him.  
By the time he reached Castiel's corridor, he was dancing. He tipped his head back and laughed, spinning in a clumsy circle. He grabbed the hands of a passing old sweeping woman, a surprised squeak escaped her mouth as he spun her around by her hands, laughing. She cooed, pleased that the extremely attractive Captain of the Guard was dancing with her. He moved on, winking at the woman. She fluttered a hand at her face and watched him cavort towards Castiel’s room.  
Sensibly, Dean waited until she was out of sight around a corner before he opened the double doors to Castiel’s hallway, humming and stepping sideways every few steps as he crossed the flagstones. He turned left into the corner, then knocked once on the door, bouncing on his toes.  
“Dean?”  
“Hold on to your breeches, I’m coming in,” Dean called, bursting the door open and making swooshing noises as he closed it behind him. Castiel was lying on the bed, naked. Dean grinned, bouncing a few more steps forward, clapping his hands joyfully.  
“You’ll never guess what I just did, Cas. You know Raphael, sweet, dear Raphael? Of course you do. Well.” Dean glanced to Castiel, admiring his smooth back. “I think I just took him down not one peg, not two, but _all of the pegs_.” Dean laughed again, knees wobbling as he closed his eyes. “Man, I feel awesome.”  
He sauntered to the bed, swinging a hand on the bedpost. “How’re you doing, Cas―”  
Dean’s heart stopped. Blood was soaked into the foot of the bed, red and pooled in the white silk. Castiel was face-down on the bed, naked, but he didn’t move.  
“Cas. Cas―” Dean ran forward, hand finding Castiel’s skin and running to his neck, checking his pulse. Still alive, heart beating like a drum. “Cas...”  
Dean turned Castiel over with a chill running in his veins, colder than Dean had ever felt in his life. “Oh God, Cas,” he breathed, watching Castiel’s body flop onto his back, eyes half closed. Castiel licked his lips, not moving another muscle.  
“Dean,” he croaked. Dean shook his head, a hand on his chest to stop him talking.  
“Don’t move, don’t - oh, fuck, what’s she done to you?”  
Across Castiel’s middle, cut into the skin just above his hipbones, was a word, seemingly sliced with a thin blade.  
SLUT  
Dean shook, unable to breathe. Castiel’s eyes flickered, and he slowly raised a trembling arm, holding up something. The bonsai knife, the blade bloody.  
Dean saw Castiel holding the knife, and saw the cuts on his skin, and came to the worst, most painful conclusion he had ever come to. “You... you did this to _yourself?_ ”  
Castiel closed his eyes, which were red from crying. He shook his head, whimpering a little. Dean sobbed and let out a trembling, tumbling breath, head bowing to rest on Castiel’s stomach, feeling it shiver in pain under him. He smelt strongly of perfume. Which was strange, because they’d washed it all off together.  
“Cas, I have to get Cupid. I have to leave you for a minute.”  
“N-no, don’t - don’t lea―”  
“I have to, Cas. Please. He needs to fix you. Unless you can walk, can you walk?”  
Castiel shook his head, frowning as the movement almost made him lose consciousness.  
“I’ll be back real quick, all right? You’re fine, you’re going to be f―” Dean broke off to sob loudly, his good mood all but reversed to the other end of the scale. He leaned to kiss Castiel on the lips, finding that they tasted of blood and salty tears. He left, slowly, walking backwards. Castiel’s eyes watched him go, pleading for him not to leave him alone. Dean shook his head and wrenched the door open, closed it, and then he bolted straight for the infirmary.  
He didn’t think he had ever run faster. Maybe it was the sudden downturn from high spirits, or the sudden shock of finding Castiel so wounded, but he ran like his body was weightless, carrying easily down staircases like he was flying. Shapes moved around him, shivering at the edge of his vision like he was in a glass tunnel, only seeing the light at the other end, heading for it and ignoring everything else.  
The infirmary doors burst open before he even knew he’d reached them. He pounded the ground with his feet as he searched for Cupid, looking this way and that, looking for the pudgy fallen angel.  
He found him, tending to Woody. Dean first greeted Woody with a raised middle finger, without even thinking. His mind clicked back into gear, and he breathed at Cupid, thoughts running like wildfire in his head. Cupid didn’t even turn around.  
“It’s C―” Dean heaved, out of breath, “Cas.”  
Cupid looked back, catching sight of Dean’s armoured form, shaking on the spot, hair a mess and eyes blazing. “What’s that, hon?”  
“CAS! He’s - hurt. Real bad. Now - _now_ , NOW.”  
Cupid nodded, dropping Woody’s broken leg and making him cringe greatly, clutching at the half-removed cast. “Of - of course. Let me―”  
Dean didn’t let him speak, nor make any other movement; he grabbed Cupid by the front of his shirt and dragged him out of the infirmary, pulling the other man faster than Cupid had surely ever travelled.  
They covered corridors much slower than Dean would have liked, having to stop every half-minute or so to take Cupid by the sleeve and drag him forwards. His shorter legs and heavier body couldn’t keep up with Dean’s lithe young sprint, and the fallen angel was soon out of breath, puffing and panting, red in the face.  
“I can’t - take all these - damn - stairs,” he complained, resting on a bannister. Dean growled and grabbed his arm, hauling him up the last few steps. They were almost there, and they pelted down the last corridor, Cupid lagging behind. Dean didn’t even knock before he entered Castiel’s room, coming to hover over his body, kissing him and pausing and then kissing him again.  
Cupid puffed into the room, closing the door, heaving breaths as he leant against it. Ten seconds passed before Dean leapt across the room and shoved him to Castiel’s bedside.  
“Oh my Lord.”  
Dean nodded, guiding one of Cupid’s hands to Castiel’s abdomen, trying to use the angel mojo on his behalf, to no avail. Cupid began anyway, both hands resting on Castiel’s skin as Dean hovered, shifting from foot to foot.  
“Cas - Jesus, what happened?” Dean moaned, kneeling beside the bed and curling one arm across Castiel’s collarbone, being careful not to hurt him.  
Castiel huffed, mouth dry as he gulped. “Meg, she―”  
“Hold on, honey - Dean, get him some water.”  
Dean obliged, running to the washroom and pouring water from a jug into a bowl, moving more slowly on his way back so as not to drop it. He held Castiel’s head as he poured a sip into his mouth, some of the water slopping down his face and soaking the sheets by his head. Castiel swallowed and sighed, lying back down.  
Then he tried again, “She came in, angry about s-something, I don’t think... she didn’t know what to be angry about, she was just... pacing.” Castiel broke off to cry out as Cupid pressed some of his skin back together, knitting it with just the touch of his fingertips.  
“But she smelled the perfume, and suddenly she remembered something―” Castiel glanced to Dean, trying for a reassuring smile, “but she doesn’t remember anyone stealing the perfume, only that it was missing.”  
Castiel gulped again, eyes closing. “She smelled the perfume, and she found it on my dressing table. I didn’t hide it, oh _why_ didn’t I hide it―?”  
Dean stroked his neck, soothing. “Shh, shh, it’s not your fault.”  
“But it is! She was annoyed already when she worked out I used magic to show you the birds this morning―”  
“God, Cas, I told you―”  
Castiel’s tone changed to one of fear. “Please don’t be angry at me―”  
Dean sobbed again, an open mouthed, soft keen pressed to Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, I can’t be angry at you, not for that.”  
Castiel’s eyes began to run with tears, dripping into his ears. “I - she found the perfume and got so angry, she was going to use magic to hurt me... Gabriel’s idea of the power of love worked. Dean, it _worked_. She couldn’t use magic against me.”  
Dean laughed, the sound sodden with pain. He leaned to kiss Castiel’s lips, caressing his face. “But she still hurt you.”  
Castiel nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open to watch Cupid still trying to heal his skin. The bleeding had stopped now, but raised, swollen scars still remained. “She asked me where I got the perfume in the first place, and I―”  
Castiel stopped to take in a shaky gasp, tears running freely. “I told her, Dean! I told her you gave it to me, as a gift. That you were my friend, and she...” Dean shivered, cheek against Castiel’s chest, feeling him breathing unevenly. “She accused me of loving too many people. That I should only l-love one person. And it should be h-her.  
“She found the knife. She called me a word, something I don’t know, a - slut?”  
Dean pressed his forehead to Castiel’s ribs, smoothing his arm with a gentle hand. “She cut it into you,” Dean told him, realising Castiel hadn’t even looked at his injuries. “She fucking cut it into your skin.”  
Castiel tremored, but continued. “She took the perfume―”  
“She took it _again?!_ ”  
“No - no, she picked it up, and she - then took the lid off, and poured it... over me.” Dean froze, shocked to his very soul. “She poured the wh-whole thing over me, and it _stung_ ,” he cried, mouth open in a pained moan. “She smashed it, there’s _nothing left_.”  
Dean took Castiel’s hand, thumb rubbing it gently. He could barely find clear thoughts to translate into words. “It’s - it’s okay, it’s just perf- perfume... Does it still hurt?”  
“ _Yes_.”  
Dean felt another tear grace his cheek, touching down onto Castiel’s chest. Castiel seemed numb to emotion now. Only feeling pain.  
“The word she sliced and burned into me...” Castiel muttered, gulping. He sighed, eyes opening, shimmering with tears. “I don’t know what it means.”  
Dean lifted his head, running a hand to touch what remained of the scars; pale, disconnected lines, blood smeared around them. “Slut? ...God, I don’t know what it means any more.  
“I used to think it was kinda sexy,” Dean huffed, trying to find a laugh in there but unable to move his lips upward. “It - it’s a word people use for a woman, a - a dirty woman, usually sexually, um...” He swallowed hard, trying to sort his own history from what other people used the word for. “Women who have sex a lot. And enjoy it, and don’t care what people think. Promiscuous.”  
“Like you?” Castiel asked, watery blue eyes turning to Dean, gravity pulling a tear from his eye.  
Dean did laugh then, a weak curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gabriel called me a man-slut.” Castiel returned his tiny smile, but half-heartedly. Dean continued, “I liked it, you know? Not the man-slut thing so much, but girls who were...” He took a breath, eyes down. “I don’t want to keep saying it, it’s usually derrogatry.”  
“Derogatory.”  
“Yeah, that. It... was kind of like, spreading your legs, letting someone fuck you. It was hot, I seriously loved that kind of thing...” Dean gulped hard, forehead back against Castiel’s arm, hiding his face in shame.  
“You still love it,” Castiel crooned, tone warm and playful, if broken from his tears.  
Dean’s soft laugh rode over Castiel’s arm. “‘cept I’m the one getting fucked this time ‘round.”  
Cupid squeaked, finally reaching the point where he’d absorbed too much information. “I think you’re all done, sweetheart,” he told Castiel, hurriedly. Castiel wriggled, stretching out. He hiccoughed, misery having lined his throat with liquid.  
“But, Dean,” Castiel said, not moving to sit up yet. Cupid sat down by his feet, dipping the mattress. “Why did she carve it on me?”  
Dean knelt up, arms resting folded on the edge of the bed. “Jealous, Cas.”  
“I didn’t tell her how I feel about you, nor about our time together. Only that you bought me a gift.”  
“She didn’t like that you have people that care about you. Spreading your love around.”  
“Spreading my legs.”  
Dean felt a guilty throb of arousal, but forced it down. “You can do what you want with your legs, Cas. And your love.”  
“Fuck her?”  
Dean knew he meant it as an insult. “Yep, fuck her,” he agreed.  
Castiel stared at the white-sheeted ceiling, seeing nothing but blankness. As Dean eyed him, Castiel broke down into a fresh wave of tears, rolling into a ball and curling away from Dean. Dean stood up and put a hand on his naked body, trying to gauge how to fix this.  
“Dean... Dean, I can’t do it,” Castiel sobbed. Dean saw Cupid rub a hand on Castiel’s foot, also trying to soothe him.  
“What can’t you do, Cas?”  
Castiel forced himself to calm down, then sat up, facing the wardrobe and dressing table and away from Dean, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Dean moved from the side of the bed and went to stand in front of Castiel, taking his chin gently in his hand and turning his sad face to meet his eyes. “What can’t you do?” he repeated, gently.  
“When I look at her, I can feel what she wants from me. If I hadn’t stopped her using magic today, she would have done it.”  
Dean frowned deeply, leaning a little closer. “What would she do? What did she want?”  
“That control over me. Taking what I don’t want to give her.“ Castiel visibly fought down tears, seemingly quite a struggle. “She wanted to take from me... what I freely give to you.”  
“...Love?”  
Castiel made no reaction for a second, then shook his head. “There is that, but she would not recognise love even if it was tied around her neck and choking her.”  
“Then...?”  
Castiel swallowed. “She finds human pleasure filthy and vile, and she wants the purity... my purity.”  
Dean blanched. “She doesn’t know that - you already...?”  
“She doesn’t know that I have already made love to another.”  
Dean dropped his gaze to the clutched, wringing hands in Castiel’s lap. “Taking that from you isn’t the same as having it given.” The chill was back, like the whole room was filled with ice.  
Castiel nodded, head wobbling. “I know that. There would be no pleasure in it, not for me. She doesn’t feel the lust or the emotion in it, only the need to take.”  
Dean held Castiel in his arms, cradling him as he sat on the bed. “She won’t touch you, Cas. Never. Never _ever_ again.”  
Castiel’s tears fell into the space between Dean’s armour and his neck, and the skin where they landed felt like it was burning.  
“We’re leaving, Cas.”  
“...What?”  
“We’re gonna take our horses, and some supplies, and some money, and we’re running. Getting out of this city.”  
Castiel stopped breathing, or at least seemed to. “But... your job―”  
“Not important.”  
“Our friends―”  
“Will survive without us.”  
“Dean, your whole life is here―”  
“Don’t you get it, Cas?” Dean sighed, whispering to Castiel’s bare shoulder. “My life ain’t worth living if you’re not in it.”  
Castiel trembled like he was going to cry again, but instead broke into a laugh, a hiccuping little thing against Dean’s neck, nose pressing to his stubble. “We can travel?”  
“All over, everywhere.”  
“See everything.”  
“Every fucking thing ever.”  
Castiel laughed again, a few gentle tears cascading onto Dean again. Tears of joy, now. “Thank you, Dean.” He sobbed, cracking with wet laughter, “Oh, _thank you_.”  
Dean pulled his chin from Castiel’s shoulder and nosed his way to Castiel’s lips, finding them and kissing him. Castiel stood up, pushing Dean backwards, never breaking the kiss. Dean’s hands found the back of Castiel’s neck, while Castiel’s arms wrapped around Dean’s shoulders.  
Castiel dropped his forehead to Dean's chin only to laugh again, his face a strangely-mixed mask of emotions. Joy, sadness, total terror. “Are we leaving now?”  
Dean paused for a second, blinking. He glanced to Cupid, who smiled watery-eyed up at them, watching them clutched in each other’s arms. “No - no, we need to prepare, and distract Meg―” Dean looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Sunday. When she’s at church.”  
“That’s three days from now,” Castiel whispered, eyes searching Dean’s. Dean could still barely place the ocean of expressions Castiel wore.  
“Is that too soon?”  
Castiel shook his head, smile twitching his lips. “It is just long enough. We have to bid our farewell properly.”  
“Farewell to what? Or who?” Dean asked, kissing Castiel gently.  
Castiel kissed back, then nodded him away. “Limn’mere. I want to visit there before we leave. And the bell tower, and the garret, and the library. All of our friends. Missouri, Death, Chuck. Everyone.”  
Dean suddenly twinged. “Cas... nobody can know. Only us - and Cupid. We have to sneak out. Secretly.”  
Castiel sighed in slight dismay, but nodded, understanding. “Okay. Okay,” he breathed, head falling to Dean’s shoulder. Then he laughed again, bubbling up from inside him. He swung around Dean, and Dean chuckled, holding him by the small of his back and letting him bend over backwards, like a girl in a dance. They straightened together, Castiel’s fingertips on Dean’s cheeks, gaze lowered to his lips, forehead pressed to his. He was standing on tiptoes, Dean holding most of his weight. His eyes clicked to Dean’s, and Dean felt Castiel’s tide of emotion wash over him.  
 _I love you, Dean._  
Dean nodded, still nodding as he nudged his lips into Castiel’s. Castiel kissed him passionately, warmly, tongue twisting and holding Dean’s in an embrace. Dean sighed and rolled their lips together, bodies still swaying side-to-side.  
“I’ll let you two get on with it,” Cupid said, standing up. Neither Dean nor Castiel turned to look at him, but Cupid knew he was appreciated, since Dean felt Castiel radiating thanks to him, just as Dean did.  
The door closed behind Cupid, and even then, Dean, for the life of him, couldn’t stop kissing Castiel.  
~x~  
Sam let out a soft breath, eyes examining Dean’s expression. He was unreadable, his face a blank mask. If it hadn’t been for the hope and the joy in his voice as he’d told his story, Sam would have assumed he had drowned too deeply in his emotions and had rendered them ineffectual.  
Sam didn’t know what to say. Neither did Dean, who leant forward on his log and buried his face in his hands.  
It was almost midday now, but the sun was still only weakly glimmering over them, the air still bitingly cold. They shared a few minutes of silence, Sam thinking over everything he’d learned. He felt so very strange; he was hoping dearly that the Dean and Castiel in the story made it out alive and well, going on to travel the world, Castiel free to use his magic to entertain Dean whenever he pleased, Dean having none of the responsibility of being a soldier, since he was burdened by that life.  
But here Dean was, and there was Castiel, flying over the lake, both their souls broken and tarnished by a curse. Sam very much wished that it hadn’t gone like this.  
Then again, he was glad he had met the two of them. They each felt like a brother to him, something real and needed that he had craved his entire life. Even his imaginary Brother - Sam realised how rarely he had spoken to him this past day or so. Their one-sided conversations usually took place every few hours; now they came only a couple of times each day, and were always about his new friends, not about the trivial things he and Brother usually talked of.  
He didn’t want to think it too forward, but Dean and Castiel were now Sam’s family. He had a family with Ellen, of course, but this was the family he had found, bonded through life and friendship rather than simply living in the same house.  
It was not as good as having a blood brother, but Sam was determined to make do. They were all he had, and he owed Dean his life. Maybe Castiel as well, if the wolf he’d been saved from hadn’t been Dean in the first place.  
“Dean!”  
“Hm?”  
Sam had seen a cart pull into the clearing, a large-wheeled wooden thing with a cube frame on the back, pulled by two small horses. “Uh - nothing, it’s nothing,” he muttered, looking away so Dean didn’t turn to look. He’d realised it was Bobby, and Dean was not meant to know Bobby was following them. Not while they were still so far from the city.  
Dean narrowed his eyes then turned around, spying the cart. His shoulders slumped and then tensed while down, and Sam studied him nervously. Dean turned back and shook his head, eyelids falling closed as he pressed fingertips to his head. “Goddamn it, Bobby.”  
“He’s here to help, Dean.”  
Dean nodded, eyes still closed. “I know. Don’t mean I’m gonna just accept it.”  
“...You’re not angry that he’s here?”  
Dean rolled his eyes open, huffing. “Yeah, I’m pissed, but I can’t exactly stop him, can I? He dragged Gabe and that poor donkey all the way down here. Apparently it took all night, the slowpokes.”  
Sam blinked. “Gabe?”  
Dean looked up, catching Sam’s eye. “Uh, Gabriel’s a horse now. I was getting there, but it’s a bitch of a long story.”  
“I noticed.” Sam’s brow creased. “A horse, huh?”  
“Yep. And a pretty damn bouncy one. Doesn’t stop talking.”  
“ _Talking?_ ”  
Dean nodded his head to the side. “Long story.”  
Sam pressed the corners of his lips downward in an accepting gesture. “A horse. All right, I can deal with that. I was expecting, like, a short guy with a mustache.”  
Dean guffawed, briefly glancing back at the cart, as if wondering if Gabriel could hear them from all the way over there. “He never had a mustache but I’m pretty sure he’d want one now. Wonder if horses can grow mustaches...”  
“Gabe probably could if he put his mind to it,” Sam mused.  
Dean shook his head, still grinning. “Nah, he’s out of magic. Just a horse.”  
“Like Lucifer.”  
Dean nodded. Sam sighed, slapping his knees gently. The cart was pulling up to the two of them, wheels pressing grooves into the soft grass. Sam stood up to welcome Bobby as he slid off the front seat of the cart and patted a black grey-nosed donkey between the ears. It hawed, and then proceeded to eat the grass right in front of it.  
Sam shook hands with Bobby warmly, Sam’s slimmer hand enveloped in a bear hug around his fingers. Bobby smiled, eyes twinkling under grizzled grey hair, smile buried under his short beard, but visible.  
“Dean’s not overly pissed off, I think you’re good.”  
“Oh, because Dean’s opinion is always what I care about, first and foremost,” Bobby said, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words. Well, perhaps it was dripping with it. But Sam picked up on a subtle layer of truth.  
“I’m pissed as hell, actually, but whatever,” Dean said, side-stepping over his log and marching with his hand out to greet Bobby. “Took you all night to get here, man. That’s gotta be a record, even for this dude,” Dean said, poking the donkey on his neck. It glared at him, chewing grass defiantly.  
“Yeah, well. Crowley made us turn back a half-day down the track, seems we missed a turnin’.”  
“Oh,” Sam said suddenly. “Whoops.” The donkey brayed shakily, ears flicking.  
“Oh, shut it, you’ve bragged enough,” the other horse said. Sam leaned around Dean to look at him, smiling as he set eyes upon a horse that, were it not for the fact that he was a horse, looked exactly how Sam pictured Gabriel as a person.  
He was stumpy and a little tubby in the middle, yellow-white hair flopping in his eyes, pelt a gingery colour. His eyes were not like a horse’s at all, but more like a human’s, bigger; hazel-green, shining with glee.  
“You must be Gabriel. I’m Sam.”  
“Hells yeah I am. Forgive me for asking, but who the heck are you?”  
“I’m uh, a friend of Dean and Castiel’s.”  
“Do I gotta do battle, or are we good? I keep exclusive bragging rights as a _best_ friend, to both aforementioned parties, gotcha?”  
Sam smiled, amused at how he had only just realised a horse can smirk. “Uh, sure. Gotcha.”  
“So, what’ve you been up to with ol’ Dean-o there, running around in the wilderness?”  
Dean and Bobby had turned away, in their own conversation. Sam glanced to them as they wandered over back to the logs, then he returned his attention to the horse. “Dean’s been telling me all the stories, from when he and Castiel got together.”  
“Does he keep doing that thing where he goes into grisly detail with the sex?”  
Sam laughed, a wide grin crawling up his cheeks. “Yeah. Cas kept doing it too.”  
“Oh, they’ve got you passing messages, haven’t they? Errand boy. Carrier pigeon. Pack horse. That was me, too. Until I put my hoof down and told them to find some other poor creature who can write this nonsense down, because God, it’s hard to remember twenty-six damn things all at once.”  
Sam grinned, liking how Gabriel’s fun-loving attitude was infectious. He felt instantly more bouncy. “Hey, are you―”  
“Up top, kid, we’re going for a ride,” Bobby said suddenly, patting Sam on the shoulder.  
Sam glanced to Gabriel, whispering, “Talk later,” before he followed Bobby and stepped up onto the wooden bench between the horse tethers and the cage. “Where are we going?”  
“Zamreer still, or were you not paying attention?” Dean asked, climbing up onto Chevy on the far side of the carriage so Bobby was between them.  
“I just thought you, maybe, might’ve changed your mind.”  
Both Bobby and Dean scoffed. Bobby shook his head, clacking the reins, getting an irritated yelp from both Crowley and Gabriel. “Dean’s more stubborn than Crowley, the damn donkey,” he grumbled, and Dean grunted agreement.  
The cart was grinding into a rumble, taking almost a full minute to turn it around back the way it had come from. Dean waited patiently, Chevy standing still and silent, then bolting to catch up before Bobby’s cart left the clearing.  
“So, where are we actually going?” Sam asked, directing his question to either Gabriel or Bobby, since Dean was trotting in front, the tiny caravan faster now that the cart was actually moving. “Right now, I mean.”  
Bobby shrugged. “As far as we can get in one day, I guess. We gotta stop before nightfall.” He paused for a bit. “There’s a tavern a few hours from here, we could be there mid-afternoon.”  
“Don’t we want to stop at sunset? Why not travel until then?”  
“There’s a few friends I want to stop by and see. Given that all this curse stuff is about to go down, prophecies are being fulfilled and all, I think they’d like to take a gander at us before we all plod to our doom.”  
Sam nodded, eyes on Chevy’s swift, heavy feet. She rode very gracefully, something Sam had been unable to see when he walked behind her, as she hadn’t been going this quickly. Dean kept his eye on the hawk that floated above them in the sky, tailing them.  
Once they made it back to the grass road in the valley, they continued the way they'd been heading before Dean and Sam had turned off into the woods yesterday. The sun hung in the sky at their backs, barely warming the air. It seemed Bobby wasn’t much of a travel talker, so Sam didn’t strike up a conversation - but Gabriel was.  
They kept trotting on for almost two full hours, in which time Gabriel did not shut up. He rarely took a breath, sometimes singing (which Bobby detested, but Sam loved, laughing constantly), sometimes trying to whistle (which Sam concurred with all in earshot, was something that should not be attempted if you are a horse), but mostly just giving a running commentary on their surroundings.  
“Oh, look at that tree, that’s a big tree. I wish horses could climb trees.”  
“There are goats that can,” Sam noted, and Gabriel snorted.  
“If goats can do it, so can I.” Gabriel then tried to veer off the course, heading for a giant oak, but Bobby snapped the reins and Gabriel sighed.  
“Get back on track, y’idjit. Day I see you up a tree is the day I exorcise you for demon possession.”  
Their banter went on endlessly, topics changing like the sky did over the mountains, rolling with fast-brushed clouds.  
Slowly, as the early afternoon crept along, Sam realised he recognised some of these landmarks. “Hey, Bobby?”  
“Y’ello.”  
“That tavern you mentioned, it wouldn’t happen to be a place by the name of The Roadhouse, would it?”  
Bobby nodded serenely, jowls pressed to his chest as he inclined his head. “The very same.”  
“I, uh, I know that place.”  
Bobby put a smile in his words as he said, “Yeah, I know you do.”  
“What?”  
“I assume you’re the right Sammy that Death was talkin’ about. It’d be mighty confusing if you weren’t.”  
“Death?”  
“Cas not tell you?”  
“He told me Death said Dean and my... destinies were entwined, or something.”  
“He also said to Cas in private that the kid who breaks outta prison is named Sam, and is Dean’s flesh-’n―” He coughed. “A goddamn thorn in his side, that’s what.”  
“I’m not all that bad,” Sam smiled. Then he took a deep breath, and let the first of a pool of questions shake itself loose. “What’s my name got to do with the Roadhouse? And how do you know Ellen, if that’s even who you mean?” Bobby nodded. “How do you know I grew up there?”  
Bobby bumped his fuzzy grey-brown eyebrows, watching Dean’s horse wander from one side of the track to the other, impatient at their slow pace. “Ellen and I ain’t seen each other for twenty-two years.”  
Sam’s eyes boggled slightly. That was all but his entire life. “What, you got a curse, too? No offence, but she never mentioned you.”  
“Yeah, well, she wouldn’t. And no, no curse. Conscious decision.”  
Sam grinned. “Oh God, we’re not gonna be walking into some old lover’s spat, are we?”  
Bobby snorted. “Ellen never took it that far, and we ain’t at war.”  
“Then why the distance?”  
“Literal distance, mostly.” Bobby shrugged. “Hell, there’s more to it than that, but I’ll let Ellen go into that.”  
Sam swallowed. He’d not seen Ellen in over a year, and he _had_ had a war. He’d messed up, bad.  
“You know, ‘m a little concerned for you, boy. Someone must’a screwed up big to land you in a jail cell in Zamreer, days’ ride from the Roadhouse - and a thief.”  
“In my defence, I learned the thief thing while I was still at the Roadhouse.”  
“And? Explanation for the reason you were gone in the first place?”  
Sam swallowed. “Uh. I’d rather not.”  
“Oh, yep, definitely your fault, there,” Bobby perceived, amused. “I guess you know we’re gonna be walking into your own funeral service.”  
“Yup. Yup, I’m aware of that,” Sam nodded.  
They continued in silence, except for Gabriel humming. He’d been listening to their conversation, and was probably thinking about it as much as Sam was. Sam wrung his hands, considering how easy it would be to leap off the cart and run the other way.  
Bobby whistled to Dean, who turned his entire horse to look back at Bobby. Bobby gestured him over, and exchanged words with him off the side of the cart. Dean argued, voice too grumbly for Sam to hear properly, but he caught “civilisation” and “stupid”. Bobby appeared to win through sheer determination, and then took the lead, and Dean fell back behind the cart. Sam looked around, through the bars of the cage on the back, to check that Dean was still following. He was, and nodded upward to Sam as he saw him watching. Sam waved back.  
Sam was very glad that his mind wasn’t a treacherous one. If Sam wanted not to do something, or not think about something, he was not tempted subconsciously. His mind was laden with mental images of men doing unspeakable things to one another, and what he was glad for was that, aside from when Dean or Cas told their stories, he had no need to dwell on the images. And so, as he saw Dean riding on horseback behind him, there were no sudden flashbacks. Nothing of Dean’s moaning, gasping mouth, lips parted wide, Castiel’s mouth closing over his throat, licking down something he’d just sprayed on his face.  
Oh. Dammit.  
Sam scowled and began wringing his hands again. Frankly he’d rather think about Ellen’s forthcoming wrath at his return than _that_.  
Bobby led them into a village, taking a turning off the side of the path they’d been on. Smoke rose from the chimneys, the smell of it making Sam hungry. Woodsmoke usually brought food with it.  
Sam itched to hide, to run down one of these side-streets, to cower in one of the places he had hidden as a child, running to wait out people’s searching footsteps after he made off with a loaf of bread or an apple.  
As a child, it was always food that he stole. Ellen fed him enough, of course, but there was that lingering recognition that people needed food or they died, wasting away. Sam hoarded food until it dried up, eaten by the rats. Just in case.  
As he grew older, it became money. Because with money, you could _buy_ food, and that wasn’t illegal. It was just common sense that he needed money. He stole, not in order to have more than anyone else, nor to take for the sake of taking, but to have what he needed.  
As he turned nineteen, he realised that if he ever wanted to bypass the need to steal - to be able to support himself in a life of his own, not relying on taking from others, he needed a lot more money.  
It was a completely flawed logic, he knew that now. But he’d had a girlfriend at the time, and she needed a place to live when they got married. Sam knew that even if she was not the woman he married, one day he would need to support a family. He needed money.  
Working at a job made no sense to Sam. It was the same theory as stealing, only you had to work harder to get it. Stealing, he did easily. Working in the tavern, he had to do all the things that nobody else wanted to do, nothing he enjoyed. And the money was always the same, the work was always the same. There was no happy surprise like when he opened a coin purse to find a gold medallion in there. To work, people gave you money. To steal, you got money. It seemed like an easy sell to Sam.  
In his twentieth year, he began to steal from the guests while he worked in the tavern. Only a little, only enough to collect more. He returned anything that looked sentimental, knowing how upset people got. As long as nothing too big or important went missing, Sam was never discovered.  
Of course, that was his mistake. He had severely misjudged the value of Ellen’s trust.  
She found out, as was bound to happen. Sam had been deluded enough to think she would understand, because it was for the greater good, and of course, there was conscience behind it. No thief was a nicer thief than Sam Harvelle.  
But no mother, even an adoptive mother, could be pleased when she finds her only son had been pickpocketing her guests for the best part of two years.  
The ultimatum was this: pay back the money in full - _double_ , even - if not to the guests, then to the tavern. Until every coin was repaid. He was to work there, possibly for half his life.  
What was the other option? he’d asked.  
Get out.  
And so he did.  
Thievery became a chore. It was a true necessity now. He would die without food, as he’d always feared. He had not a coin on him, nor the skills to catch his own nourishment. He fled to Zamreer, hiding in trailers, stealing from travellers and farmers. It was by his twenty-second birthday that he settled in, finding semi-honest work as a pickpocket among Zamreer’s locals. A year of steady money flow; steal, buy, eat, sleep. That was it. It worked for him.  
The Guards of Zamreer thought otherwise; but then again, they always did. They had been Sam’s favourite targets. They were always so rich, and so rude. They did nothing but bring misery to the people - not just the thieves, like himself, who probably deserved it - but people who were hard-working, truly honest and friendly. In fact, the Guards stole from them just as often as Sam did, and didn’t even bother hiding the fact. They would pinch apples off the stands, winking to the seller, and nobody did anything for fear of a beating. Beatings came often to all who stood in their way.  
Zamreer was a beautiful city, but its police were the crud of the land. It was that fact that made Sam hate Raphael in Dean’s story all the more. He was their leader, their trainer. He was the man that made them that way.  
When Dean had told Sam the part of the story when Raphael was kicked into the dirt, Sam had sat up and yelled a cheer, startling a lake bird. Even as he thought back now, he smiled. He loved seeing a bad man beaten. Penance for his sins.  
If anything, Raphael was the sinner, not Dean and Castiel. Sam knew he was not one to judge, but a blasphemous love, compared to the blinding, stifling hatred that Raphael conjured? Love over hate was the hands-down winner for Sam. He’d take the grossly over-detailed man-on-man love stories any day.  
“Here we go,” Bobby muttered, and Sam realised with a jolt that they’d come to rest their cart in the Roadhouse’s expansive stable, Crowley already stuffing his face with hay. Sam lingered on the cart’s seat, watching Bobby unhook Crowley, then Gabriel. Gabriel shook himself down like a wet dog, then trotted to go meet some of the other horses in the stable.  
Chevy followed him, nudging his side. She must recognise him.  
Dean looped an arm over the side of the cart, looking up at Sam. His other arm held up Castiel, whose beady blue eyes stared at Sam too. “Why the long face?”  
“You gonna make a horse joke?”  
“I would’a but you already did it, bitch.”  
“Jerk.” Sam was weirdly heartened by Dean’s words. They had a _thing_ , and it was refreshing, and friendly, and really, it was nice to hear Dean’s deep voice after a few hours of Gabriel’s awful singing.  
“No, seriously, Sammy, what’s up?” Dean rapped knuckles on the seat, catching Sam’s attention.  
“It’s _Sam_ ―”  
“Call you what I want.”  
“―and it’s just about the... people that run this place. Family of mine, of sorts.”  
“Oh, right. Sweet.”  
“Not really.” Sam licked his lips, finally climbing down, standing where Dean had been before he stepped out of the way. “Ellen and I didn’t part on good terms.”  
“Girlfriend?” Dean asked, nudging Sam in the ribs as he made his way after Bobby, leaving the stable.  
“Ew, no. Adoptive mother.”  
“Oh, yeah, you said. Whoops.”  
Sam nodded, walking out into the street. The wind through the road’s valley ruffled his long hair, whipping it about his ears. It was on damp, packed ground that they trod, walking towards a wooden swinging sign bolted out to the side of the building.  
Harvelle’s Roadhouse. It felt like coming home.  
They didn’t go in through the front door, not as customers. Bobby knew the back entrance, the one Sam always used. So, he really was family. Sam was rather put out that he’d never known Bobby existed.  
He was also on edge about the fact that all these prophecies were true. Sam met Dean, Dean knew Bobby, Bobby knew Ellen. It shouldn’t be possible; the world wasn’t that small.  
Bobby stopped at the inside curtain, the one that led to the main tavern. There was no candle in here, but it wasn’t dark. Daylight still made it in past Sam, and the glow of lights from inside the tavern, always lit, crept through the heavy cloth of the curtain.  
“You ready for this, kid?”  
Sam gulped. Dean reached up to stroke his bird, who chirped and leaned into his fingers. Sam stroked him too, then nodded. “Okay, ready.”  
Bobby led the way past the curtain, not drawing it back but simply lifting it out of the way. Sam and Dean followed suit.  
“Whoa,” Dean said.  
It was a nice place, really. Opposite them was the front entrance, lead-patterned glass front cut into parts by mahogany beams; between there and here was a wooden floor, round tables and chairs all across it, exactly fifteen of them. On a good night, every single one was filled, and then some. On the left was the bar; there, Sam realised with a peculiar lurch, was where Ellen was.  
Her square jaw was as set as ever. She wore a dark blue tunic, and trousers. She was never one for a skirt. Her eyes stayed on the glasses she was cleaning, even as Bobby led Sam and Dean up to the bar.  
The place was deserted, for now. It would be full in a few hours, people from all over coming to enjoy a drink and a meal. The windows on the right bathed the room in pale sunlight, its source ever lowering toward the horizon. Winter was always so bleak, even when it wasn’t quite here yet.  
“Ellen.”  
Ellen looked up, and broke her glass. “Bobby.” Her voice was shaken, throat tight. She only had eyes for the old man as she climbed out from the bar, lifting the side. Her boots clumped on the floor and she threw her arms around him, eyes closed.  
Sam’s stomach clenched as she smiled. She was going to see him, and that smile would vanish. He tried to hide behind Dean and his bird, both of whom looked at him as he did so.  
Ellen was laughing, pleased. “What brings you here, Bobby? It’s been too long.”  
Bobby was silent, turning his eyes and raising a hand to gesture at Dean. “Wanna take a gander at who this is?”  
Ellen’s eye twitched, looking Dean up and down. Dean shifted his weight uncomfortably. He hadn’t been expecting a stare-down.  
Ellen suddenly started, eyes thrown wide. She looked between Bobby and Dean, back again. Dean had had enough, and went forward, the arm that wasn’t holding his bird outstretched in greeting. “Hi, I’m D―”  
“―Dean Winchester.” Her voice was breathy, face painted with shock. “My, how you grew.” She touched his face, and Dean did not recoil. This was a peculiar touch. It was not sexual, nor that of a friend, nor was it unfamiliar. It was that of a parent, and Sam could see that Dean recognised it. Dean had not been touched like that by anyone but Bobby for twenty-two years.  
Sam clenched his hands. He wanted to be embraced like that, no anger in Ellen’s eyes, only wonderment.  
“There’s someone else,” Bobby said softly. “He tells me you ‘n him didn’t come out the tunnel quite right.”  
Ellen looked back to Bobby, shoulder-length hair swishing over her ears. “Hm?”  
Bobby nodded to Sam, who stood there with a arm over his stomach, hand clamped to his elbow. Ellen’s eyes fell upon him and her breath visibly stopped.  
“Sam.”  
“Hey, Ellen.”  
Ellen’s gape turned to a hardening jaw, and Sam felt the anger building in her from all the way over here.  
Bobby held out a hand to her, brushing her arm. “I should tell you he ended up on death row in Zamreer. Escaped by a hangnail.”  
Ellen’s face was clearly overwhelmed. Here she was, reunited with three people she had near enough given up for never coming back. And now her closest had a story that stung her with shock.  
Bobby sighed and patted her shoulder. “Just go easy on him, he’s had a rough week.”  
Sam considered, that in the scheme of things, this week had really been the best of his life. But he dared not mention it, given that Ellen’s jaw was relaxing as her anger abated.  
He waited until she approached him before he moved. Her arms fell around him, and Sam let out a sigh, long and alleviating. “I missed you,” he breathed.  
“Roadhouse ain’t been the same with you gone,” Ellen said, pulling away to look at him, hands on his arms. She only came up to his shoulders, and she looked at him with her eyes swimming, a smile playing on her lips. “One day you can make it up to me, but not right now. Come have a drink.”  
“Actually―” Sam tugged on her arm, returning her focus to his face. “I have something for you.” He reached to the back of his tunic and pulled out a cloth that was tucked into his belt. He placed it in Ellen’s hands. The Guard saddlecloth, the one Castiel had been wrapped in as Sam carried him to Bobby’s castle. It still had hawk blood on it, but that wasn’t important.  
“Gold thread?” Ellen mouthed, letting the cloth fall freely as she stretched it out. “The Guard sigil?”  
“Dude, did you pinch that from my bag?” Dean complained, ceasing his stroking of Castiel’s feathers to frown. Sam shrugged, then saw Ellen's expression. She was displeased.  
Sam huffed, trying to get air to his brain. “You could unpick it. Sell it. It’d make up for half of what I took, easy.”  
“That it would, but, for God’s sake, Sam,” she started, tone turning harsh, “if you ain’t learned your goddamn lesson while you’ve been, where? In prison―?!”  
“In Sam’s defence, ma’am, I was the one who asked him to pinch that in the first place.” Dean stepped forward, sounding very determined. “And it ain’t got a better use than to clear his name, so if a strand of gold thread’s gonna fix some of his problems, he can have it. You can. Gladly. You should know he’s been a better friend to me these past few days than I’ve had in five whole years. And then some, I guess. He ain’t a bad person.”  
Ellen was smiling now, looking between the two boys. “I know he ain’t. Heart made of a _mile_ of golden thread, this one.” She put her hand on Sam’s face, and Sam melted. That was it, that was the touch. “And hell, it’s nice to see the sense of family protectiveness and pride wasn’t lost in so many years apart,” she said, dropping her hand and turning back to Bobby and Dean, smiling warmly.  
“Family?” Dean asked, looking questioningly at Ellen.  
Ellen startled, eyes turning to Bobby. She widened her eyes pointedly, and Bobby shook his head.  
“They’re a lot denser than I’d’ve hoped,” he rumbled. “Turned out purty though, wouldn’t you say?”  
Ellen laughed, leaning back on the bar on her arms, one boot bent back against it. “That they did, Bobby. That they did.”  
Bobby smirked, and Sam could see he was very happy to see Ellen again, barely able to take his eyes off her face. “So are you gonna tell them, or am I?”  
“What’s to tell?” Dean asked, eyes narrowing. He sat down on a table, ass perched on the edge. Ellen scrunched her mouth up, disapproving, but did nothing about it.  
“Bobby and I got a story,” she said, eyes flicking to Sam, who came forward to take a seat at Dean’s table and reached a hand to pet Castiel. Ellen watched this and frowned. “But first things first, what’s with the bird?”  
Sam laughed, falling against the back of the chair, slapping the table. “It’s - ehe - a long story.”  
“I’ll say,” Dean muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Sam. Sam grinned back.  
Ellen tapped her long fingers in a line against the edge of the bar. “All right, let’s get this over and done with,” she said. “We can have a heart-to-heart later, but there’s some pretty big chunks of info you’re missin’. Let’s take a crash course in Winchester, shall we?”  
Dean set Castiel on the back of a chair, which it looked like Ellen also disapproved of, but let slide. Dean leaned back on his arms, bowlegs curved to the floor. “Let’s have it then.”  
Ellen pushed off the side of the bar and went to fetch everyone a drink. “What do you boys know about the Reaper Massacre?”  
Sam sucked in a sharp breath, eyes on the table. Ellen knew what he knew. Apart from the fact that Dean’s parents had also been lost, Ellen had told Sam everything he recognised about his parent’s deaths.  
“Fire,” Dean said, voice low and pained. Sam knew why. “Burned a whole village.” Bobby had told Dean everything _he_ knew. Everyone was on the same footing, now.  
Ellen nodded, handing Dean a lager and Sam his favourite honey mead. He beamed at her, glad to taste its amber sweetness on his tongue for the first time since so long ago. Bobby got a plain old ale, and he sat down at an adjacent table, drinking.  
“Bobby and I knew your parents,” Ellen said, her back turned, and both boys assumed she was talking to them. “We caught wind of what happened, and...” she broke off suddenly, fingers over her mouth, the other hand on her hip. Everyone gave her a moment. She lowered her hand, breathing out slowly.  
~x~  
Ellen rode faster than Bobby, she always had. She could see the smoke up ahead, could feel granules of soot drifting down from the sky. They came down like dry rain on her, sticking in her hair. What sickened her the most, aside from the fear of what had happened, was tasting the burnt flesh in her mouth. Human flesh. She already knew the worst had truly come to pass before she even got there.  
Her horse whinnied as she dismounted, uncomfortable with how everything was blackened, how nothing could be told apart from any other thing. It was like walking into a different world, this one filled with nothing but shadow.  
Ellen could hardly breathe, could hardly see through the tears of panic that forced themselves from her eyes, trying to wash out the smoke that tickled them. She didn’t know where to look. Nobody had survived, it was obvious. Everything was burnt to a cinder.  
Where there were once trees, now there were stumps, rounded at the sides, still glowing red with embers. Houses became flat lines of collapsed material, crumbled and charred and still sizzling. Roads were ditches, even the dust was singed. There was literally nothing left. This was no normal fire.  
Bobby came up behind her, stocky figure like a wraith as he approached.  
“God in Heaven,” he breathed. He sounded like he was unable to comprehend how this could have happened. Ellen was the same.  
“If God’s in Heaven, He better stay there,” Ellen put out, voice stranger than she’d ever heard herself. Grief, shock - it did odd, unexpected things to her. “If He comes down here, He’ll never see the light of another blessed day after what I’d do to Him. For letting this happen.” She couldn’t move her head, blindly staring out at the carnage.  
“I can’t see their house,” Bobby said, his own voice just as wavering. “I don’t know what’s what.”  
Ellen snapped out of her reverie, a tear falling from each eye as she blinked. “Turn everything over, we’ll find them.”  
Bobby nodded, heading off in the vague direction that he and Ellen remembered the house being in.  
It took over an hour, after ten minutes of which, Ellen was retching, from the heavy smoke, from the acrid smell of meat, and the thought that it smelled delicious. At that last thought she had actually vomited, then fallen in a heap and cried for a while. Bobby came to put a hand on her shoulder, then pulled her up, tugging her back to work.  
By the end of the hour, they were both sick to the core. They’d found other people joining in their search for loved ones, horses riding in from all directions as the news spread. Tears hissed on the burning ground; people’s hands added to the smell of burning flesh as they touched things too hot.  
Bobby eventually recovered a part of a roof, flipping it to find a collapsed house, and amidst it, the door to a room singed almost beyond recognition. It stood, still upright. All alone by itself, in the middle of the wreckage. Leading nowhere. The keyhole was melted off, the handle gone. Bobby stepped around it.  
Ellen came up behind him, huffing. “This is it, this is the house―” She coughed, throat dry. “This is their house.”  
Bobby began to overturn blackened things, not knowing what they once were.  
“ _Mary!_ ” Ellen screamed, calling for her lost friend, knowing she was gone. “ _John!_ ”  
~x~  
Sam sighed, hand over his mouth. Dean wasn’t moving, still perched on the edge of the table. Sam wondered what he thought, hearing this story. The story of how Sam’s parents died. Sam had heard this story so many times, but never in this much detail.  
Mary and John.  
Ellen had never told Sam their last name. And somehow she knew Dean. Sam didn’t know how or why, but he had a feeling today was the day he’d find out.  
He had his theories, of course. But he had questions, too. As soon as Ellen had finished this story, he knew that his questions would be answered.  
~x~  
Bobby threw endless things out of the way, digging into the rubble. What was he looking for? Ellen watched him move so determinedly, and she couldn’t understand why he kept going. Everyone was dead. Blackened and burnt.  
“ELLEN!”  
Ellen ran forward, almost stumbling over something that might have been a table once. Her hand found Bobby’s, black with charcoal. He steadied her, then showed her what he’d found.  
Ellen wailed, a sound she didn’t even hear until seconds after her mouth closed again. It was not a human sound.  
A person’s skeleton lay half-covered by a heavy shape, which Ellen and Bobby worked to push aside. Ellen recognised the jawline, even through the corruption of melded flesh on it. Mary.  
“Mary,” Ellen cried, no reason for it other than to say her name again. It no longer belonged; this body was not hers any longer.  
What a strange thing a skeleton was. The frame of a person, the part that held them all together. Seeing it, exposed... there was no person left. Through life it grew, breaking and mending itself. In death, the part that remained, was the part that had always been there. The flesh and soul were no longer stitched to it. Fire burned it off. Cooked it.  
Ellen held a shaky hand over Mary’s skull, unable to drop it the last inch to touch her. It felt wrong, to touch the inside. There should be skin here, muscle. A smiling face, perfect blonde hair.  
All Ellen saw was a black mask, empty eye sockets. Her nose was gone completely, as were her ears.  
“Mother o’ God,” Bobby sighed, hand over his head. Ellen looked up at him, standing there helplessly. Neither of them knew what to do.  
They had a moment of silence for those lost, hearing only the rough sound of the wind over the flattened village, sweeping the smoke away. Shouts came from other parts around them, other people finding their loved ones’ bodies, possessions. All dead. All broken, all blackened.  
Another sound tickled at Ellen’s ears for a moment, and she passed it off as a horse in the distance, nickering.  
No... no, this was something else.  
“Sh,” she said to Bobby, despite him making no noise. She stood up suddenly, hand held out to indicate Bobby should wait. “Do you hear that?”  
Bobby listened, eyes falling shut and a wrinkle creasing his brow.  
A rattle, a thump. A tiny whine.  
“There!” Bobby said, scrambling forward, tripping over something and kneeing himself on the ground, barking out pain as he burnt his skin through his trousers. He stood up and hurried forward again, Ellen behind him.  
Bobby wrenched up a pole, then a beam of wood, which snapped in the middle as he pushed it. Ellen heaved, hands hot on a panel as she shoved it to the ground, hearing it split as it slid. She sighed and fell to her knees, hearing the sound clearly now. It was coming from... right...  
There.  
Ellen found a cupboard. It was black, same as everything, but its solid shape remained, half Ellen’s height. Its handles had been burned away, and Bobby handed Ellen a half-melted rod to wrench it open, levering it between the two doors. They fell apart with a crack, and Ellen dropped the rod and curled her fingers to pull the doors off their hinges.  
Ellen gasped. To say she was shocked would be an understatement.  
“Bobby, hand me a cloth―”  
“What is it?” he asked, automatically handing her his top tunic.  
Ellen didn’t reply for a bit, intent on leaning forward to pick up what she’d found, wrapping it in the material. She rocked up to her feet, eyes on her bundle.  
“Ellen, what―?”  
“Look,” she said, smiling despite their situation. “Bobby, look.”  
Bobby stepped to look over her shoulder, and Ellen heard his rattling gasp. “Holy...”  
“We have to... get out of here,” Ellen breathed, eyes filling with tears, cleansing this time. The grief was smothered by hope, not for finding any of her friends alive, but for what she held in her arms.  
Bobby protected her all the way to the edge of the village, finding her safe places to tread, making sure she didn’t fall.  
The edge of the village was burned so cleanly. Even where the houses ended, a few feet of grass was singed like someone had dropped a giant cooking pot on it. The scorched area ended in a clear black line. Ellen stepped onto the green grass, and felt new life arrive with her.  
She couldn’t take her eyes off the baby in her arms.  
“They never t-... never told me they were having a baby,” Ellen breathed, shivering.  
Bobby touched her arm, letting out a tiny exhale. “Nor me.”  
“I don’t know what his name is,” Ellen grieved, stroking the little boy’s face with a charcoal-black thumb. He was pale, but covered by dust and ash. Maybe six months old. Soft brown hair tufted up all over his head. He looked up at Ellen with hazel-green eyes, whining.  
“Are... Are you sure he’s theirs?”  
Ellen glared at him, but eased her stare when she considered that maybe, he wasn’t. Neither Ellen nor Bobby had seen their friends for over a year. They’d received no message or word, in that entire time. It could be any baby, set in the only cupboard that was lined. The only thing that would survive. Of course that would be what Mary and John would do. Save the baby, any baby. It might be someone else’s child.  
“No,” Ellen said. She shook her head. “He’s theirs. They saved him, he’s theirs. Mary’s eyes, John’s nose. This is a baby Winchester.”  
~x~  
“What?” Dean breathed. His head lifted from his chest, focus settling on Ellen where she stood against the bar. Bobby supplied nothing, so Dean turned to Sam, sitting to his left. “But... you’re the baby they found. You’re the one they found in the cupboard.”  
Dean stood up, staring at Sam and backing away a few steps. “I was in the city, I was training. I was nine years old.” His voice was rife with bewilderment, sounding hollow.  
Sam only looked back, not speaking, not moving. Castiel stared at Sam from the back of the chair opposite, his feathers ruffling. Ellen and Bobby did not interrupt Dean as he put things together.  
Dean shook his head. “No... no. Winchester. Mary and John, that’s my parents’ names. It must’ve been me they found. My baby brother died in that fire.”  
Sam did not move anything except his head, shaking it gently, eyes on Dean. Dean stuttered and frowned, hands clenched by his sides, his back turned to Ellen.  
“But, but...”  
Sam inclined his head a little. “I was the baby. I’m Mary and John’s child.” His voice was calm, speaking slowly and clearly. The story wasn’t new, but Dean’s reaction was. Sam had been expecting it. “I put it together a while back,” he said, swallowing. “Dean, I’m your brother.”  
Dean shook his head again, stepping back once more. “No - no, no.”  
Sam smiled slightly and stood up. “What, you don’t like having a smart brother as much as you thought you would?” He grinned, eyes crinkling. He could feel the joy building, forcing out the misery of having his parents’ deaths recounted to him.  
Dean gulped, back hitting the bar as he retreated. “My parents are Mary and John Winchester. My brother burned. Died. I don’t have a brother, I’ve never had a brother.”  
Sam laughed, pushing his chair back and going to stand a few paces in front of Dean. “You’ve got one now, Dean. I’m Sam Winchester.”  
Dean gaped for a few seconds, looking between Sam’s eyes. “Hi, I’m Dean. W-Winchester.”  
Sam beamed and held out his hand for Dean to shake. Dean eyed it and then grabbed it, pulling Sam into a massive bear hug, sighing hard on his shoulder. Sam stood stunned for a second before pulling his arms around Dean’s shoulders and squeezing back.  
Dean held him for a long time, all firm lines and muscles against Sam’s skinny frame. Sam’s head loomed over Dean’s shoulder, given he was a good few inches taller.  
Dean let him go a half-minute later, holding Sam by the shoulders, looking up into his face. “Holy crap, I’ve got a brother.”  
Sam returned the sentiment. “I’ve got a brother, a real brother,” he said, awe knitted through his voice. This was overwhelming.  
Sam hugged Dean again, holding him close. Dean laughed against him, shoving him off playfully. “All right, enough.” Dean couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice.  
Sam shook his head, grinning right back.  
Dean heaved a great sigh, eyes not leaving Sam’s face until his breath ran out, then he looked to Ellen, who was watching them with her hand over her mouth, eyes shining happily. Bobby looked like he was about to cheer.  
Ellen dropped her hand, caressing the top of the bar. “You boys need a moment, or shall I keep on with the story?”  
Dean started, eyebrows bumping. “Oh right, there’s... more.”  
Ellen nodded, waving a hand to indicate they should sit down again. Dean sat in a chair this time, leaning over the wooden table. Sam sat opposite, hand stretched to the centre of the table. Dean leaned an arm across and flicked Sam’s hand. Knowing Dean, that was about as affectionate he was ever going to be to Sam, really.  
But Dean surprised Sam, reaching across again and putting his fingers over the back of Sam’s hand, not petting him, but something similar. Sam smirked, but didn’t look up, knowing Dean would snatch his hand back. He dropped the touch when Ellen started speaking, but neither moved their hands away.  
~x~  
“What do we do with him?” Bobby asked, staring.  
“I’m going to take him home, he can live with me.” Ellen’s gaze never left the baby’s face.  
“What about Dean?”  
Ellen looked up sharply. “Dean’s on his own. He’s a kid, he needs someone.”  
Bobby hesitated for only a second. “Should we bring him back here? To you?”  
Taking in a slow breath, Ellen shook her head. “Does this fire look natural to you?”  
Bobby only had to blink before answering in the negative. “Looks like the demons of Hell itself clawed their way up and drew a line around the village.”  
“Exactly,” Ellen agreed, licking her ashen lips, then spitting the taste away, human particles on her tongue. She trembled. “A massacre, total annihilation - and they meant to take the baby as well. Sign o’ God that he’s still here, he should’ve slow-roasted in that cupboard.” She cried gently, watching the baby play with her hair, no clue his parents were dead.  
“Whoever did this... they gonna be after Dean as well? And this baby?” Bobby rested a warm hand on Ellen’s shoulder, peering down at the tiny human.  
Ellen sighed, eyes falling shut. “I have no idea, Bobby. I only know neither of them are safe. If you go to Dean... you have to stay with him. He can’t leave the city, he’s got - he’s got a whole life there ahead of him,” Ellen said, frown deep on her face. “He made it someplace, none of the rest of them did. Three generations of Winchesters and he’s the only one that got a Guard scholarship and got out of this village.”  
Bobby smirked. “I may have... eh, you know.”  
Ellen turned to look at him, surprised. “You forged...?”  
“Everything.” Bobby nodded. “Kid needed a future, he ain’t gettin’ one here. Well―” Bobby surveyed the shadowed circle of land that used to be a village, “―there’s no future here for anyone.”  
“Except you,” Ellen cooed to the baby, leaning her head in. “You’re gonna grow up smart ‘n handsome, ain’t’cha?”  
Bobby rubbed Ellen’s arm, and she rocked into his touch. “You gonna name him?” Bobby suggested.  
Ellen gulped. “Not just now. Needs some thought.”  
Bobby nodded, stepping away. “I gotta go tonight, Ellen. Dean can’t be on his own.”  
Ellen agreed, following him as he went to gather their untethered horses. “Bobby, wait,” she sighed, not yet taking the rein that was handed to her. “If someone’s after them - if that’s even right - Dean and this little one... they can’t know about each other. If they ever get together, they’re a walking target. You know Dean, he pushes and pushes - if you ever told him he had a brother, he’d stop at nothing to find him, ‘specially after finding out he lost―” she crumpled slightly, heaving a giant, wet sob, “―his fam-... family...”  
Bobby nodded, hollows deeper in his eyes now. He knew what was coming.  
“If you’re gonna stay with him... it needs to be his whole life. He needs a father.”  
“Your kid there’s gonna need one too.”  
Ellen looked down at the baby. He wriggled. “This one don’t need nobody.”  
Bobby stared, then nodded, letting Ellen’s horse’s reins loose from his hand. “Take it this is goodbye.”  
Ellen’s focus left the baby completely. Bobby, oh Bobby.  
Maybe it could be five years. Until Dean was a teenager. Ten years, until he was an adult. Fifteen, when he’d be fighting his own battles. He’d be a soldier by then. Twenty. He’d be his own man.  
Bobby would be old by then. Ellen would be old.  
They were never seeing each other again.  
“Bobby,” she sighed.  
Bobby’s face ran with tears, the blackness of death stripping away and leaving pale trails of skin. Ellen’s must be the same, she felt the tears cool on her chin.  
Bobby stepped up to her and pressed a long kiss to her lips, neither opening their mouths. Ash and death and lost life between them. The young child lay in Ellen’s arms, wrapped inside Bobby’s embrace.  
Then Bobby pulled away, a final tear dripping like a diamond to the ground. “Have a nice life, Ellen Harvelle.”  
Ellen nodded once. “You too, Bobby Singer. Take care of Dean.”  
Bobby got up on his horse and took one long look at the carnage of the village.  
His eyes fell to Ellen, who raised the fingers of a single hand. His gaze stayed on her until his horse turned, then he kicked it to a gallop, and never looked back.  
~x~  
Bobby laughed, pulling Ellen into his arms. “You tell a good story, Ellen, but hell, you haven’t aged a day. Me, I got old ‘n fat. You just got taller.”  
Ellen beamed. “It’s the boots, I ain’t changed a lick.”  
Dean shook his head, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Castiel flapped at him, almost knocked off his perch as Dean fell into him. “Sorry, Cas,” Dean said, letting the bird hop onto his arm.  
Dean pressed his other hand to his face, stroking down and scratching his light stubble. “This is some heavy info dumping, man.”  
“Could’ve been worse. You could’ve walked into a crazy love story where both of them are guys and one’s a wolf and the other’s a bird. And _then_ been told you have a long-lost brother.” Sam smiled, recognising he was actually pretty good with heavy info dumping. He was quick to acclimatise.  
“What was that about a wolf?” Ellen asked, head lifted from Bobby’s shoulder. “If I see a wolf a mile from this tavern, that thing is getting an arrow to the head. It was bad enough last time,” she grumbled, slipping out of Bobby’s arms and slapping the bar. “All right, who wants a drink?”  
Dean stood up, staring at Castiel and then putting him back on the chair. He took off his leather arm protector and handed it to Sam while Sam was requesting another honey mead.  
Sam took the protector, glancing up at Dean. “You going somewhere?”  
Dean lowered his voice, so Ellen had no chance of hearing. “You heard her, she’ll shoot me. I gotta be a good five miles away by sundown, I don’t know how far my wolf feet take me in a night. I might wander down here and get a goddamn arrow through my brains.”  
Sam glanced at the arm protector, and nodded. “You have a good few hours though―”  
“Five miles minimum, maybe ten, Sam. And someplace hidden. I can’t be out in someone’s back garden, I’m gonna be naked, and - oh yeah - did I mention, a _wolf_.”  
“Fair point. All right, where do we find you?”  
“Find me?”  
“We’re coming after you, you know that right?”  
Dean slumped his shoulders a little. “Come on, Sammy, you can stay with your family―”  
“Hey, Dean? I’m seeing this thing to the end. Suck it up and deal with it.”  
Dean pursed his lips. “Fine. Bro.” He smiled on the last word, they both did. Dean slapped a hand on Sam’s arm and made to head out. He was interrupted by―  
“SAM?!”  
Sam looked up at the young woman on the stairs. “Jo, oh my God!”  
Dirty-blonde hair flew behind her as she ran across the Roadhouse floor, swinging her arms around Sam and knocking him back a foot. They laughed and spun on the spot, Sam’s gaze catching Dean’s as they swung.  
“ _That’s_ your girlfriend, right?” Dean pressed, barely giving them a second to compose themselves after they broke their hug.  
Sam glanced to Dean, then back to Jo, a split-second of movement. “Ew, no, she’s my sister.”  
“Sister, huh?” Dean repeated, perhaps looking a bit disappointed. All right, so maybe Jo was attractive, but she was Ellen’s daughter, and that made her Sam’s sister. Dean was not allowed to find her attractive.  
“Oh my God,” Jo said, bouncing on the spot. “God, I missed you so much, Sam!” She threw her arms around him again and laughed.  
Sam patted her on the back and tugged her off. “Hey, Jo - meet Dean. My brother.”  
Jo turned to look at Dean, who was half a head taller than her, looking down with those green eyes of his and finely-crafted jaw. “Whoa,” she said, gaping. “Brother?” She glanced back to Sam. “He’s too short to be your brother.”  
Dean laughed, eyes flicking to Sam’s. “Genetics always mess up, don’t they.”  
Sam shook his head woefully, still smiling. He patted Dean on the arm as he stepped back, taking his honey mead from the bar and swigging it. Jo grabbed it off him and gulped down a few sips from the other side, then handed it back, beaming. She was absolutely overjoyed to see Sam again.  
She started bouncing on her toes anew. “I’m gonna get Bela, wait here,” she told Sam. She ran a few steps back to the stairs, but paused and looked back at Dean. “Don’t you go anywhere, she’ll want to see you.” She only managed another few steps before stopping again, turning around and frowning at the table Sam and Dean had been sitting at.  
“What’s with the bird?” she asked.  
Sam choked on his mead, and Dean patted him on the back and called to Jo, “Tell you some other time, it’s a long story.”  
Jo vanished up the stairs, boots clumping. Sam turned to Dean. “So, if these guys are my family... and so are you... technically Ellen’s your mom now.”  
Dean pulled his lips back in a mock grimace. “Of all the moms in the world that I could’ve landed with, I ended up with the scary one who raised a thief.”  
Sam huffed. “Oh, no. I quote, thief with a ‘heart made of a mile of golden thread’, end quote.” Dean raised his eyebrows, stealing some of Sam’s mead. “Besides,” Sam continued, “Bela was the one that taught me how to steal.”  
“Bela?”  
“Holy crap,” a new female voice said. She sounded young, about Jo’s age, but with a very different accent. “Sam has a hot brother.”  
Sam coughed into his mead again, face wet as he set it back on the bar. “Nice to see you too, Bela.”  
Bela struck thick heels over the wooden floor, avoiding tables and making her way straight to Sam and Dean. Jo was behind her, smiling brightly.  
Bela’s hair was mousey brown, her eyes piercing grey and focused. She headed straight for Dean, but veered off to plant a kiss on Sam’s cheek, murmuring a long note. “Glad to see you haven’t been hanged, Sam.”  
“Almost was,” he said. Bela’s attention was already on Dean again, who had managed to escape back to their table, and was petting Castiel.  
“So, Sam’s brother. Do you have a name?”  
Dean gulped, glancing to Sam, unsure if he was allowed to flirt with this one. Sam pressed his lips down and waved an open hand. _Have at it._  
“Uh, yeah. Dean. Winchester.” He held out a hand to shake. She turned her head sideways at it, and Dean realised with a cough that he was meant to kiss her hand, not shake. Castiel was clearly a bad influence, even after five years apart.  
“You’re lucky you’re pretty, Dean,” Bela said with a wink. “That move would’ve gotten you a slap from a real lady. Luckily for you I’m not a real lady, I do all kinds of dirty things.”  
Dean dropped her hand awkwardly, other hand on Castiel. Bela looked down at the hawk, staring at it. “What’s with the bird?”  
Dean coughed gently. “Uh, friend of mine.”  
Jo came up beside Bela, reaching a hand to touch Castiel. Castiel inched back, but then let Jo stroke his feathers. “Wow, he’s a starer, isn’t he?” Jo said, half her mouth pulled up to a grin.  
“Means he likes you,” Sam replied, on the other side of the table, watching Jo, Bela and Dean crowd around the hawk on the back of the chair.  
Bela brushed Jo’s hand away gently and tried to pet him too, but found her hand pecked. “Ow!”  
Dean grinned. “And that means he doesn’t like you flirting with me.”  
Bela glared at Dean. Of course, Sam could see she only thought it was Dean, rejecting her. But Sam knew it was all Castiel. Jealous little hawk, really.  
“Um,” Dean said, glancing to Sam. “I gotta get going.”  
“So soon?” Ellen asked, coming up next to everyone and wiping her hands on a cloth. “Come on, you just found your new family, you’re not gonna stay to enjoy it? We have rooms free.”  
Dean heaved a sigh, clearly regretful that he couldn’t accept the offer. “You’re not gonna want me staying in one of your rooms, trust me,” he mumbled.  
Bela raised an eyebrow at him, and Sam coughed, shaking his head.  
“So, what, you’re ditchin’ us?” Jo asked, still stroking Castiel. “Not even staying for dinner?”  
Bobby stood beside Ellen, arm around her waist. “Trust us, it’s better for everyone if Dean’s outta sight for the night.”  
Ellen laughed. “What, he some kind’a werewolf? It ain’t a full moon, it’s on its way down to new. Two days, and you won’t be able to see the hand in front of your eyes.” She shook her head, not realising how close to the truth she really was.  
Dean looked rather pale. “I gotta get goin’,” he muttered again, backing up of their crowd. He glanced between Castiel and Sam as he said, “Take care of him, all right?”  
Sam nodded. “I will.”  
“I was talking to the bird,” Dean smirked, as he strode for the curtained exit, a quick glance to Sam. Sam grinned and watched Dean leave.  
“Wow, that was sudden. And what, he’s not taking his bird?” Jo asked, glancing to the swaying curtain.  
“Nah, he leaves me with him at night,” Sam said, going to sit down. Ellen and Bobby turned away, going to catch up on twenty-or-so years of their lives.  
Bela sat down opposite Sam, hands clasped on the table. “So. Tell me about this brother of yours. Real brother?”  
Sam nodded, “As far as we can tell, yeah. Flesh-and-blood.”  
Jo glanced at him, head down as she petted Castiel. She seemed a lot less bouncy. Sam looked back at her and smiled. “Oh, come on - you guys are still my best sisters, nobody’s messing with that. Besides, he’s been telling me stuff. Things I probably didn’t need to know - God, I can’t believe I know all that stuff.”  
“What stuff?”  
Sam glanced up, hand pressed to his head. “I know almost every damn detail about my brother’s sex life. Oh, God,” he groaned, pressing a palm over his face, looking out at the girls from between his fingers.  
“ _Sex_ life?” Bela repeated, clearly amused. “Come on then, tell all.”  
Sam gawped. “Whoa, no, no. No way. I’m not repeating that stuff. Especially not. Because it’s a secret.”  
“Secret sex life?”  
Sam took a deep breath in, hand combing through his hair. He caught sight of Dean’s horse trotting past the front windows with Dean on her back, speeding to a faster trot as Sam watched. He silently wished him well, and hoped he’d see him again very soon.  
“So, Sam,” Jo said, leaning over the back of an adjacent chair, letting Castiel return to preening himself, “where’ve you been this past year?”  
Sam smiled. “Where do you want me to start?”


	4. IV

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon in the company of Jo and Bela, joining the rush of preparation for the evening customers, at Ellen's instruction. Together the three of them probably spent less time cooking and preparing than they spent laughing, but Sam didn’t think Ellen minded at all.  
Every chance she got, Ellen was leaving her post behind the bar, even as the first customers of the night started to arrive. All she wanted to do was set eyes on Sam again, to make sure he was okay. Every time she found him laughing and smiling, and she smiled back, then returned to her work.  
The last of the daylight found Sam in the kitchen, as he was busy moving newly cleaned pots to the other side of the sink, ready for a new batch of Jo’s hearty lentil soup.  
That was when the screaming started. Sam dropped a ladle into the sink, not giving a second thought before running straight to the main hall.  
The first cry had been a woman, then it was immediately followed by male yelps of shock, some angry words - Sam scampered around the corner and his whole brain yelled ‘ _oh, crap_ ’.  
The crowded hall was filled with men and women, all enjoying a meal or a drink, every table full. Candles burned around the room, and a fire was going in the hearth. Right in the middle of everything, where everyone’s eyes and shouts were directed - Castiel.  
Sam rushed forward, swiping his apron off his neck. He’d realised what had happened straight away: the sun had gone down, and the hawk, sitting innocently on the back of a chair, had suddenly become a very confused and naked man.  
Ellen stepped forward, shoving standing people out of the way, who had all jumped forward to see this strange spectacle. She yelled confusedly at Castiel, “Where in Hell-tarnation did you come from?”  
Sam had trouble pushing through the gathered congregation, maybe fifty people.  
Castiel stood in the middle of a circle of people, hands clutched between his legs, hyperventilating. If Castiel had dreams like humans did, this had to be one of everyone’s nightmares. And Sam had let it happen, he’d been so distracted.  
Sam broke through the last of the human barrier, excusing himself to a middle-aged woman who was staring blatantly at Castiel and blushing profusely. Sam grabbed Castiel by the arm, handing him his apron. Castiel snatched it, holding it between his legs, mouth open in distress.  
“Come on,” Sam whispered to Castiel, making a space through the crowd. They laughed, and stared, and Sam could see no end of eyes, of faces, all looking at Cas.  
Ellen swerved in front of Sam, blocking him right as he met the edge of the crowd. “What in God’s name is going on?!”  
Sam panted a few times, glancing around. Castiel was still by his side, arm clutched tight in Sam’s hand. “We need someplace private, and quick. God, Ellen, please.”  
Ellen stared at Sam for only a second before nodding and beckoning him forward. Sam followed, already knowing where she was headed. Castiel stumbled at Sam’s side, and Sam pulled him in front, shielding his naked rear from the eyes of the people behind him. He didn’t want to look back, he didn’t want to know how many people were still watching.  
Castiel tried to stretch the apron around his whole middle, trying to cover his front and back, but it was too small. He made do with walking quickly, head down, hands in fists.  
The Roadhouse had a small back room, where they kept the bedding and medicine, the extra stuff that didn’t fit in the other, more accessible cupboards. It made for a good break room, for a bit of time alone. When playing hide-and-seek, it was the first place the seeker looked. It was full of shelves and closets, and so for a smaller person there were hidey holes everywhere.  
Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they made it there. Ellen fell in behind them, closing the door on all three of them. For a trio of fully-grown adults, it was really rather cramped.  
“Anyone want to explain what’s going on? Your bare-assed friend here appeared out of nowhere,” she directed at Sam, shaking her head. She put a hand on her hip and waited for his answer. Castiel sat down on a wooden bench, moving a few folded towels out of the way. He spread the apron over his lap, trying to cover as much as possible. He didn’t seem to be blushing, only set marginally off-kilter.  
Sam licked his lips and sat down heavily on top of a bed frame that had been there for the past eight years. He’d named it Ben.  
“Um, well,” Sam started. He took a breath to say something else, but Castiel interrupted.  
“May I have some clothes, please?” He looked up at Ellen with puppy-dog eyes, watery and round. Sam smiled, because that was almost certainly a distraction, if a strategic one.  
“Sure, honey,” Ellen said, and Sam did smile then, because she’d fallen as hard for Castiel’s big blue eyes as surely as Dean did - and Sam had known his own puppy-dog eyes worked well for himself in the past. Ellen left with a single glance at the two of them.  
As soon as the door was closed, Castiel turned to Sam. “What’s happening? Why am I here?”  
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Cas - I got distracted, and Bobby was off talking to Ellen, and I completely forgot you were going to switch like that...” He realised that wasn’t what Castiel meant. “This is the Roadhouse, it’s a tavern. It belongs to my adoptive mother.” Sam took in a sudden breath. “And Dean’s my brother.”  
Castiel blinked at all of this, and then smiled at Sam’s final confession. “At last.” His smile widened at Sam’s surprised look. “I knew you were brothers. I think you worked it out by yourself as well, didn’t you?”  
Sam let out a tiny breath, then nodded. “Yeah. Only, like, last night. And this morning. And I didn’t think it was true, you know? I thought I’d just leapt to the most cheerful conclusion, the one I’d like the best. But then Ellen told us the story...” He swallowed. “She and Bobby separated me ‘n Dean after the Reaper Massacre.”  
“Yes.”  
“You knew that too?”  
“There are a lot of things I know that you don’t, regarding our situation, but for you, they are all in due course. I cannot just heap them all upon you at once.”  
“Try me.”  
Castiel smiled, shaking his head and letting it rest against the wall behind him. “I can’t do that, Sam.”  
Sam shrugged. It was worth a try. “Look, Cas... I’m really sorry about all... _that_. With the turning up in the middle of a crowd. That must’ve been so embarrassing.”  
Castiel looked at Sam for a long while. “I was a disoriented, yes, but nudity doesn’t bother me. I enjoy it.”  
Sam gaped a little. “Uh, you don’t mean, uh...?” Castiel squinted at him. “Um, in a, like a, sexual way?” Sam sucked his lips in as soon as he’d finished talking.  
Castiel eyed Sam sideways, considering his words. “I would not become aroused in the middle of a crowd, but I will admit it was exciting. I still felt the need to preserve my modesty, however.”  
Sam swallowed hard, looking at the ground. “Right. Well. Um.”  
“That admittance made you... more uncomfortable than my stories of Dean and I.”  
Sam huffed, eyes down. “Uh, yeah. Well, it’s weird. Usually people cry or something when they get shown up like that.”  
Castiel leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on clasped hands. “I’m not people.”  
Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I get that.” He shook his head with an odd smirk and brushed it all off as just another freakish thing that happened.  
“Who was the woman who was in here?” Castiel asked, eyes searching Sam’s face.  
“Ellen. The adoptive mother I mentioned.”  
“If she is your mother, and Dean is your brother... she is Dean’s mother?”  
Sam shrugged, then nodded.  
Castiel laughed under his breath. Then he stopped and looked at the floor, staring for a while. “Does she know about Dean and I?”  
Sam shook his head. “Do you wanna tell her?”  
“How might she react?”  
Sam sighed slowly, eyes roaming as he considered. “She knew Dean as a kid. I don’t think he remembers her, but she knows him. I think she’d be pretty weirded out to find out the kid Mary and John raised for his first seven years turned out to be a... well, I don’t know the word, but has another man for a lover. Or mate. Whatever you guys are calling it these days.”  
Castiel looked up at Sam, bewildered. “I meant the curse.”  
“Oh - _oh!_ ” Sam grinned awkwardly. “Sorry, that kind of wasn’t the first thing that pops into my head when I think of you guys. There’s too much sex in there, man. It’s friggin’ _weird_.” He clasped his head in his hands, wishing he could scrub all the man-sex out of there. “Plus, Dean’s my brother, which is just extra weird.”  
“Would you rather I not tell you when Dean and I make love?”  
Sam’s eyelids flickered. “That would be preferable, yes,” he said, overly serious.  
Castiel looked very disappointed at this. His lips drew into a flat line and he looked away.  
Ellen opened the door and came back inside, handing Castiel a pile of folded clothes. “I got you something blue, thought it might go nicely with those eyes of yours.” Sam grinned so hard his cheeks dimpled. Ellen was so taken, and Castiel had barely said a word to her.  
Ellen rounded on Sam, eyes stern. “Right. Explain. Now.” Her gaze flicked to Castiel as he stood up, pulling the apron out of his lap as he went for the shirt. Ellen gasped as her eye drew downwards automatically (so did Sam’s, but he would rather it hadn’t).  
“Oh, goodness.” Ellen cleared her throat and looked away, lips pursed. “Sam, speak now, or forever hold your peace; and yes, that is a threat.”  
“Um, okay, so, long story short,” he began, taking a deep breath. “So this is Castiel, and he’s Dean’s mate, and that means they have sex, but they haven’t seen each other for five years, because they have a curse on them, put there by the Priestess of Zamreer, who Dean is intent on killing. He thinks killing her’ll break it, but that won’t work. And during the day Dean is a person and Cas is a hawk, and at night Dean is a wolf and Cas is a person.” Sam shivered, wilting under Ellen’s fiery glare.  
She said nothing for a moment, only stared as Sam ducked his head further and further. Then she glanced to Castiel, who was doing up his trousers, his eyes focused on the buttons. He looked up and met her eyes, and nodded.  
“You are kidding me, aren’t you,” she said, not phrasing it as a question; it was all one note.  
“Sam speaks the truth.” Castiel sat back down, hands curled around the edge of the bench. “Dean and I are lovers. And shapeshifters.”  
“If you need proof or something,” Sam added, “go check if the hawk is still out there. Cas appeared where the bird was, and he turned up naked, and suddenly. Because birds don’t wear clothes.”  
Ellen didn’t need to check. “This is some freaky-as-hell shit, Sam.”  
Sam bumped his eyebrows, enunciating, “Oh yeah.”  
Ellen leaned back against the door, throat clicking as she swallowed. “Little Dean’s a... I don’t know the word, is there a word?”  
“Werewolf?”  
Ellen flicked her eyes quickly to Sam. “That wasn’t the part I mean. He... does he kiss you?” she directed to Castiel.  
Castiel hesitated, then nodded. “It has been five years, but yes.”  
“He knows it’s wrong, surely? Bobby didn’t give him some messed-up notion that all love is good love, did he?”  
Sam shook his head. “It’s not wrong, Ellen. It’s really kinda beautiful―”  
“Sam, not you too,” Ellen sighed, rolling her head. “Men... aren’t _meant_ to kiss other men.”  
Castiel stood up sharply. “Men can kiss whomever they like. And make love to other men if they both wish to do so.” He turned his piercing gaze on Ellen, who stood up straighter against the door. “They can be naked around each other and enjoy it, and can touch each other, and play together. There should not be judgement cast for something that comes naturally.”  
Ellen shook her head and stepped forward, a pace from Castiel. “It ain’t natural, honey. I don’t know of any medicine that can cure this, but I know a witch-doctor, she might―”  
“ _I am not sick_ ,” Castiel pressed, voice more intense than Sam had ever heard it. Sam was silently cheering him on, trying to hide his smirk every time Castiel spoke. He loved Ellen, of course, but she was evidently in need of correcting right now.  
Ellen turned her eyes back to Sam, who was still sitting on the bed frame. “Sam, when you find that werewolf brother of yours, bring him back here, won’t you? Bela likes him enough, I think she would be―”  
“Dean is mine.”  
Ellen caught Castiel’s gaze again, not faltering under his glare. She responded with one of her own. _Oh no_ , thought Sam. _The Mom glare._  
“Dean’s a free spirit, honey. Bobby’s been telling me all about his love of _ladies_. I didn’t expect anything less of a Winchester boy. I’d have rather he found one girl and settled, but hey, anything’s preferable to...” she broke off to look Castiel up and down. “A pretty-boy.”  
“I am a fallen angel.”  
“A what-now?”  
“I am a magical being. I am not human. I am not a boy, and I am not _pretty_.”  
Sam snorted, then found both Ellen and Castiel looking at him. He smirked at Castiel. “No offence, but yeah, you’re pretty.”  
“I am ruggedly handsome,” Castiel retorted, and Sam collapsed between his own knees, trying not to cry with laughter. “Or as Dean called me, ‘hot’.”  
Ellen smiled, flattening her lips. She wasn’t angry, only disappointed. Sam knew that face well.  
“So, angel, huh?” She stuck a hip out to the side, folding her arms. “What’d you do, hypnotise Dean into thinking he wanted you?”  
Sam stopped grinning, sitting up straight again. “Ellen, it wasn’t magic. Dean was really stubborn about it, but he fell of his own accord. And hard.” He glanced to Castiel, who smiled back with his eyes.  
“I love Dean very much,” Castiel said quietly. He couldn’t meet Ellen’s stare, but the truth in the words was evident.  
“Yippee for you,” Ellen said flatly - and yet, was clearly being swayed.  
Sam stood up, standing behind Castiel and patting a soft hand on his back. “We gotta go find Dean, he’s gonna turn tomorrow morning and head for the city by himself, you know he will. And he’s going to get there before Bobby’s prophecy. The Priestess is gonna be dead before we’re halfway there. He’s faster than us.”  
Castiel nodded, head still down. Ellen looked between the two men, arms folding a bit tighter.  
“He’s really gonna kill someone? He’s planning this?”  
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. “Cold-blooded murder, yeah, we know. We’re set on stopping it.”  
Ellen thought for a little while, staring them down. Sam held her gaze determinedly when she met his eye, and after long moment she dropped her arms, shoulders relaxing. “Know I ain’t happy with the both-men thing. At all. That’s gonna be fixed when you get back here.” She launched a pointed finger at Sam, “And you _are_ coming back, don’t think for a second I’m gaining a son and his goddamn angel boyfriend and then losing them right along with my other son.” She turned her gaze soft, sighing. “All three of you, come back here when you’re done with whatever it is you’re doing.”  
She put a warm hand on Sam’s cheek, smiling at him. She patted him and then lowered her hand. “But if you end up with a werewolf still, at the end of this all, let Dean know I’d rather have him. Cursed or not. Don’t let him do something stupid.”  
Sam grinned. “It’s _Dean_. Bad decision making is his true curse.”  
Castiel turned his head to look at Sam. “I wasn’t a bad decision.”  
Sam pursed his lips. “You kind of were, actually, but he doesn’t regret that one.”  
Castiel seemed reassured by that.  
Ellen shook her head despairingly, standing out of the way of the door. She opened it, and swept a hand to let them pass. “Go on, get outta my sight. Don’t come back without Dean. Dead or alive. ...But preferably alive.”  
~  
“All righty, I got shovels and a pickaxe, a keg of ale, rope, and a crossbow in case we need it.” Bobby threw the last into the back with a quiver of arrows, then shut the door of the cage. It clanged, rocking the whole cart.  
Sam tapped his knees nervously. Castiel clambered up beside him, thigh warm against his as they pressed together. Bobby made the horsecart wobble again as he sat on the other end, the weight of it leaning to his side. It would be more balanced with Bobby in the middle, except Castiel had requested that he sit next to Sam. He had nothing against Bobby, of course; he just liked Sam a lot.  
Bobby whipped the reins and Gabriel started to grumble, kicking back and making Bobby’s side of the cart jolt. The wheels began to turn, and soon enough, they rolled out into the street.  
Sam waved at Ellen, Jo and Bela as they passed, all of whom had left their duties in the tavern to see them off. As Sam dropped his hand, Ellen patted her girls on the shoulders and shooed them back to work.  
“Do we know where to find Dean?” Sam asked the others, head turning from side-to-side. “Cas?”  
“He always chooses forests, somewhere with a lot of cover and no people, unless he can help it.”  
“Last night, we were so close to a village. How come?”  
Castiel shrugged, knees bumping and swaying Sam’s with the roll of the cart. “Sometimes he makes strange decisions.”  
“Don’t you ever pick where to stay, travel at night?”  
Castiel shook his head. “I did try a few times, but found Dean wakes up very, very disoriented.”  
Sam smiled. “You pass messages with paper, though?”  
“That’s what I said!” Gabriel shouted from below.  
“We ran out of paper, and paper is expensive,” Castiel said. “We used almost all of Dean’s savings on it. We attempted other methods, but they were all tedious and time-consuming. Making letters out of shredded leaves was probably the worst.” He inclined his head. “Sometimes we still try. But it’s not easy.”  
Sam said nothing for a while. He was watching the road towards the city, barely able to see it in the dark. The sliver of the moon was thin, only a crescent on the horizon.  
“Sam?”  
“Yeah, Cas?”  
“Would you like to hear the continuation of mine and Dean’s story?”  
Sam paused, then nodded once. “Sure. Dean told me some.”  
“Up to where?”  
“Um, he and you just decided to run away together. There was a lot of crying and laughing and stuff.”  
Castiel smiled slyly. “I enjoyed the part that came after then. The next few days were some of the best of my life. Until that last day.”  
Bobby snorted from Sam’s right. “Yep, can see why that would be. But leave out the details when you get to the gross parts, won’t you.”  
Castiel reluctantly agreed to his terms, his shoulders hunched as he began to think. He didn’t speak for some time, taking breaths to start but unable to continue past a syllable. Suddenly he huffed, slumping back against the cage behind him. “Sam - Bobby, may I _please_ include our sexual exploits? There is really not much else. And I enjoy telling them so much.”  
Both Bobby and Sam winced. “Cas,” Sam sighed. “I’m Dean’s brother. Bobby’s basically his father. You gotta get that we don’t want to hear that.”  
Castiel looked off into the blackness at the side of the road, sinking into a pointed glower. He didn’t speak or look at them for nearly five minutes, during which time Sam and Bobby exchanged multiple significant looks.  
It was one final glance from Bobby, who nodded his chin toward Castiel as Sam caught his eye, before Sam dropped into a resigned slouch. “Okay, _fine_ , Cas! Tell us the nasty stuff, but God, don’t be surprised when I stick my fingers in my ears and start singing.”  
“Hey, I can sing for you,” Gabriel offered. Sam thanked him graciously, although he was truly not sure whether he would rather be scarred for life by having his brother’s sex life recounted to him, or a singing horse.  
Castiel brightened immediately. He slapped his hands to his knees and hummed a note under his breath. “I fear you might have very sore ears by the end of this, if those are your only two options,” he said.  
~x~  
“Up, up, up!”  
“Oh goddamn it, Gabriel, _what?_ ”  
Gabriel clapped his hands once, loudly. “You’re booked off training today, I got Gordon to cover for you. If anyone asks, you have the kind of infection that nobody wants to know about.”  
Castiel heard Dean groan and watched him pull his pillow over his head. Dean was still for a moment, then pulled it back off. Looking to his right, his gaze landed on Castiel, who was sat up on the edge of the bed.  
“Goddamn you too, Cas. Why’d I gotta end up with a _morning_ person? You suck.” He stuck his nose back in his pillow as Castiel vacated the bed.  
“I am not so much a morning person as a person that enjoys all hours of the day. And yes, I do suck. Quite well, as I recall.”  
Dean wriggled, and Castiel heard him trying to hold back a happy noise.  
Gabriel coughed, catching sight of Castiel, full-frontal as he shuffled around the bed. “Dean, get up, your boyfriend is not wearing any clothes. Blatantly. And it’s morning.”  
Dean’s noise escaped as a tiny whine into his pillow, and he clutched it tighter over his head. His voice came out muffled. “Why’re we getting up, man? It’s too early.”  
“It’s eleven. And you’re going to Limn’mere. Andy’s got the Priestess distracted for you, and you’re bloody well going to use your last few days here to do something beautiful.”  
Castiel looked at Gabriel in surprise. “Last few days?”  
Gabriel flashed a grin at Castiel and sat down on the end of his bed, avoiding the pool of dried blood that nobody had cleaned up yet. “Cupid can’t keep his mouth shut when it comes to you guys. Especially not with me.”  
Castiel swallowed and searched his wardrobe for a clean set of clothes.  
Gabriel stood next to him and dragged out the blue shirt that Castiel had hidden at the back. “Here, wear this,” Gabriel said. It was the shirt Castiel had worn the first day he and Dean had met. “You’re gonna have a great day today, trust me.” He slapped Castiel on the back and turned away.  
“Up, Dean!” Castiel heard Gabriel shouting, as he pulled his clothes on. He spun around to watch Dean being dragged out of bed onto the floor, blankets clutched to him as he went. Castiel grinned and went to hide in the washroom for a while.  
Ten minutes later and Dean was knocking on the door. “So you’re a washroom hog as well? Great, man, that’s just peachy.”  
“Uh,” Castiel called. “I’m cleaning myself, I’ll be out in a minute.”  
“Need any help with that?” Dean replied, and Castiel could hear the grin in his words. He also heard Gabriel’s quiet mumbling, informing Dean of something that Castiel didn’t quite catch.  
“I don’t think you really want to see me cleaning this part of me, Dean,” Castiel called back.  
There was silence for a few seconds. “O-okay. Cool. Um, I’ll be out here. Just hurry up, okay?”  
Castiel rolled his eyes and hurried up.  
He passed Dean at the door on the way out, and couldn’t help but keep his eye on him all the way through, until Dean shut the door between them. Castiel looked to Gabriel, smiling. “You made him some new clothes?”  
Gabriel shrugged. “Last night’s were covered in your blood.” He stepped forward to stand in front of Castiel. “You and Dean are doing the right thing by leaving. I’mma miss you, but your life here’s nothing compared to the potential of just you two, on your own.”  
Castiel nodded. “I know. Thank you.”  
Gabriel nodded back and then stepped away. “Missouri put a basket together for you. We’re gonna make this thing as sweet for you as possible, all right?”  
He pulled out a sugar dumpling and began to nibble it, but Castiel shook his head when Gabriel offered him some. He proceeded the shove the rest of the dumpling into his mouth at once, chewing furiously.  
Castiel blinked a few times then sat on the bed, a little ruffled. “Why are you being so nice to us?”  
Gabriel laughed out loud, slapping a hand on Castiel’s bedpost, making it wobble slightly. “Because not everyone’s as nice as us, Cas. Not everyone out there in the world is gonna be indifferent to the fact that you’re both dudes. Whatever trouble you’ve seen here, ain’t even the scrapings of the jar. You’re gonna get monsters out there. Real, nasty people. Who would rather hurt you than see you together.”  
“Like Meg.”  
“Worse than Meg, Cas.”  
Castiel lifted his head, not sure such a thing were possible. “Then why should we run? Into their arms, almost?”  
Gabriel ignored the bloodstain and sat down beside Castiel. “Because you need to see the world. Follow your dreams, count the stars. That sort of thing.”  
Castiel looked at the floor, bursting with questions but unable to word any of them.  
Dean emerged from the washroom, and without another second to think, Gabriel grabbed both him and Castiel by the shirtsleeves and hauled them towards the smaller side door. “Someone’s coming.”  
“Cupid?”  
Gabriel shook his head, opening the door and shoving them both through it. “Shut up, don’t move,” he breathed.  
Startled, Castiel found himself crammed in the corner of the tiny porch outside the magically-created side door. Dean was pushed up next to him by a fast hand of Gabriel’s, and then the door was closed behind them. Gabriel locked eyes with each of them in turn, a finger over his lips; a shushing motion.  
Castiel dared not breathe. He heard footsteps. He knew those heels, they were the sound he heard almost every evening as they crossed the corridor to his room. For six years.  
He knew the three of them were invisible, hidden by Gabriel’s magic, but when Castiel saw the ghost-like dress of the Priestess as she strode to his main bedroom doors, he pressed himself into the wall, trying to sink inside it. His stomach was curdling like sour milk.  
“Castiel,” Meg said, opening the double doors with both hands. Her tone was sharper than ever. “Castiel, come here, I wish to speak with you.”  
Dean’s hands found Castiel’s, and squeezed. Castiel was too numb to squeeze back for a few seconds, but his hand clamped down as soon as he heard a crash.  
It was the sound of splintering wood. Followed by the sound of the wardrobe being thrown to the ground, its doors snapping off. He heard screeching shouts, the woman’s voice carrying like an angry cat in the night-time.  
She was meant to be distracted by Andy. She wasn’t meant to be here.  
Castiel flinched, time and time again, as he heard the sound of his room being torn apart. By magic or by the Priestess’ own hands, he couldn’t tell. He had never cared much for the room, always spending the least amount of time there as he could. But it was still home, to some extent.  
He could hear the sheets being torn down, glass breaking. The heavy crunch of the washroom door being thrown wide. Meg never stopped shrieking. Castiel didn’t know what she was angry about, but it hardly mattered. There were so many things he’d done to wrong her, she could have become enraged by any number of them.  
One thing he knew, though, was that she did not yet know about he and Dean. She would save that confrontational anger for Castiel, face-to-face.  
Dean’s thumb was rubbing soothing circles on Castiel’s hand. Castiel wanted to run, down the corridor, out into the castle. Then grab their horses and leave. Right now. Never come back. But Gabriel held them still, not yet safe. He would signal when they could move.  
Castiel slumped onto Dean’s shoulder in front of him, arms curling around his waist. He felt Dean’s warmth pressed against him, wearing a new green shirt that smelt like fresh spring grass. He instantly felt better, but that didn’t stop him flinching as something heavy hit the small side door.  
Meg couldn’t see that door, it was part of Gabriel’s magic in its creation. But whatever she threw that hit it, was the last thing they heard. Silence descended.  
Castiel replayed the last thumps in his mind. It only took a few seconds before he realised what had happened. She had heard her missile hit wood, not wall. She knew there was a door there, now.  
Castiel clenched his hand around Dean’s, and the other around Gabriel’s, and pulled them out of the corner, into the corridor. He launched them into a run, pelting down the hall with his heart in his throat.  
“CASTIEL!”  
The bellow followed them like an echo as Castiel let Gabriel open the doors for him, three pairs of feet hitting the ground hard as they ran for the end of the next hallway.  
“Left, take the left!” Dean hissed suddenly, trying to direct Castiel. Gabriel’s mind caught up faster, and together they hauled Castiel through the next door. Castiel had never descended stairs this fast in all of his life.  
In perhaps a minute, they were out in the open air, Gabriel dropping Castiel’s hand and running ahead to guide them to the stables. “Get out to Limn’mere,” Gabriel said, calling back over his shoulder. “We’ll sort everything out for you, we’ll meet you outside the city, get you the rest of your stuff. You never have to come back after today.”  
“No!” Castiel said suddenly. “We have to come back, we’re not ready to leave yet!”  
Dean’s strong legs pulled them faster across the courtyard. They didn’t need to be running so fast any more, but it seemed silly to stop. “Cas, we can’t come back! You can’t be here!”  
Castiel shook his head sharply as he ran. He felt the strongest burst of instinct that he’d ever felt: something was amiss. There were _so_ many things wrong with this. They couldn’t leave, not yet. “I’ll stay in your room, we’ll leave on Sunday like we planned. Please Dean, there’s so many things I still wanted to show you here.”  
“There’s a million more things out in the world! You can’t―”  
“You never saw the view from the garret! We never went beyond the first hallway! I never showed you any of the rooms, nor the parts of the library I used to sit and read! We haven’t had sex in the bell tower, Dean!”  
Dean’s run slowed as the stable came into sight. “Cas, that stuff isn’t... it’s not...”  
“It’s important to _me_.”  
Gabriel fell behind, still with them but letting them go ahead. They were walking by the time their feet met the path that led straight into the stable, its doors open wide all the way through into the warm sun.  
Dean only dropped Castiel’s hand when they got to the shade of the stable roof. “I think it’s a bad idea. But if you wanna come back after we get out today,” Dean turned to face Castiel, slightly out of breath, “we can do that. But it’s dumb.”  
Castiel nodded his head forward, about to kiss Dean, but stopped as Gabriel cleared his throat. “Thank you, Dean.”  
Dean headed for Chevy’s stall, looking back to see why Castiel didn’t follow. Castiel shooed him ahead, and instead went to check on how Bailey the horse was doing. Gabriel looked torn between his two friends, but shrugged when Dean pointed him towards Castiel.  
“This the horse you saved?” Gabriel asked, coming face-to-face with the horse, who was only a few inches shorter than him.  
“Yes.”  
Bailey looked up at the two of them, moving her head up and down and snorting. Castiel put a gentle hand between her ears, greeting her. She breathed on him.  
Castiel’s eyes flicked open suddenly. “She’s... still sick.” He felt total dismay descend upon him. “I fixed her, she should be better―”  
“She looks fine, what’re you―”  
“She’s not in pain, Gabriel. But she’s still dying. I didn’t remove the cause, only the symptom.”  
Gabriel looked between the ginger horse and Castiel’s saddened face. “What was the cause?”  
“I can’t tell. But I cannot heal it.”  
“Maybe I could―”  
“It would injure you to try, Gabriel. Greatly. I am adept at speaking with animals, but it was the hardest attempt at magic I ever made when I tried to help her. Without knowing what you’re looking for, you would either hurt yourself, in your mind... or you could kill her outright. Last time I surfaced with her blood on my arm.”  
Gabriel looked into Bailey’s eyes, round and brown and watery. “I’m sorry, girl. At least you’re pain-free, hm?” He stroked her neck, her white mane tickling his wrist.  
Castiel looked between them, miserable. Then he laughed suddenly. “She looks like you,” he chuckled. “If you were a horse, you would look very much like her.”  
Gabriel tilted his head at Bailey. “She kind of does, doesn’t she?”  
Bailey neighed loudly, headbutting Gabriel on the shoulder. He laughed and hugged her face. She didn’t seem to mind at all.  
Castiel slid his hand down her neck one last time before patting her, leaving her to stare at Gabriel with those Gabriel-esque eyes of hers. It was uncanny, really.  
“Hey, wait, bro,” Gabriel called after him, then conjured Missouri’s picnic basket in mid-air. He handed it to Castiel, who nodded gratefully. Gabriel turned back to the horse.  
Castiel could feel bad about Bailey’s oncoming death, but not about how she lived until then. Pain-free, in a stable with other horses, a kind owner, and now a new friend. Gabriel seemed disinclined to leave her side.  
Castiel went to saddle up Lucifer. His mind was full of thoughts: Meg’s anger, Bailey’s health, his and Dean’s secrets.  
“You ready to go?” Dean asked, already on horseback in the central aisle. Castiel spared him a glance and nodded, preoccupied. A minute later he was beside Dean, looking back over his shoulder to watch Gabriel leading Bailey out into the aisle, talking to her. Castiel handed Dean the picnic basket then climbed up onto Lucifer’s back.  
“How should we leave?” he asked, wanting to smile but not quite there yet. “I cannot leave by the drawbridge.”  
“You know, I never blocked up that wall like I said I was going to,” Dean said, Chevy starting to walk. As they hit the wall of sunshine, burning hot on Castiel’s dark hair, Dean said, “Maybe that could be my last act as Captain when we leave. Stick the wall back together. Last escape.”  
They trotted in silence, heading for the part of town where the wall crumbled behind an oak tree. It didn’t seem necessary to talk, since they had a whole day of freedom ahead of them. Meg would be looking for Castiel, he knew that. Andy must have messed up somewhere, but now it wasn’t important. So they rode on, catching each other’s eye every so often and smiling.  
Castiel had been expecting them to talk as soon as they left the city, but even once they made the shade of the forest trees, Dean said nothing. Castiel had not yet thought of anything to say.  
Ten minutes of a slow walk in, Dean pulled his Captain ring out of his pocket. “I don’t know why I don’t forget about this. I don’t wear it any more, I just transfer it between my pockets when I change clothes.”  
Castiel eyed the white circle that Dean held in front of him, leaning over the picnic basket. “I wish I had a different ring,” said Castiel. “One that didn’t exist to remind me that I am not my own person.”  
Dean’s eyes stayed on Castiel for a long while as he said, “What would you like a ring to mean?”  
Castiel stared at the ring on his own finger, then pulled it off. “Meg put this on me the other day. She made me wear it. Here, take it.” He passed it to Dean. “I’m never going to wear it again. I would destroy it, but I would someday like to throw it into Meg’s face. Violently.”  
Dean chuckled, taking the ring. He tossed the two in his hand and pocketed them. “You didn’t answer the question, Cas. What’d you want a ring to mean?”  
“What rings are always meant to mean: loyalty. Yours means loyalty to your Captain position, mine is loyalty to the Priestess. But neither of us are truly... _loyal_ to those, are we? If I had a real ring of my own, I’d want it to mean loyalty, and love. _True_ love.”  
Castiel had thought about it often, but had never come up with an answer to his own question until now. True love. Not burdened or pressured by society, something natural and _real_ , something that springs itself upon a person like an early season rain.  
Dean said nothing to that, completely impassive, and they rode without another word the rest of the way, listening to the birdsong and the gentle rustle of green leaves above. Summer had set in quickly this year. The glory of the canopy above was truly a sight to behold.  
Castiel closed his eyes and enjoyed the scent of sycamore trees, of the sap on their branches; the peat of dropped leaves and tiny twigs under the horse’s feet. The sound of cicadas tickled at the edge of his hearing, the sudden calls of birds and flapping wings like a floating melody above the sounds of the forest.  
The trees and bushes became denser the deeper into the forest they went, the horses treading a path they knew well by now. Castiel pulled Lucifer’s trot level with Dean, then overtook. He wanted to be the first through the barrier of leaves today.  
He sighed with relief as his eyes fell upon the endless allure of Limn’mere. The trees’ leaves had thickened slightly since they had last visited.  
“The last time we were here, we touched each other sexually for the first time,” Castiel told Dean, knowing he hadn’t forgotten. He’d just wanted to say it aloud.  
Dean dropped off Chevy’s back, patting her and letting her wander off to eat the fresh grass that had sprouted. “Lot’s changed since then,” he said, smirking at Castiel.  
“Very much for the better,” Castiel nodded. “You are much less of a stubborn, scared little boy.”  
Dean gawped briefly, turning it into a chuckle as he set the picnic basket down on the grass, exactly where they always sat. “Nah, I’m always gonna be stubborn. But yeah, I’m not scared of wanting dick any more.” He smirked wickedly, leading with his hips as he swayed into Castiel’s space and ground up against him.  
Castiel chortled and pushed him away by the chest, stepping back and waiting for Dean to step after him. Dean immediately hurled himself into a full-scale dash towards him, Castiel barely having a second to bark his surprise before hands caught him around the waist, swinging him by the back of the hip as he laughed.  
Dean bumped his whole body along Castiel’s back, and Castiel caught a flash of the green of Dean’s new shirt, as Dean reached to grab him around the middle. Castiel giggled and broke free, running backwards a few paces, gaze on Dean as his eyes shone.  
“You’re it, Cas,” Dean huffed at him, feinting a few side-steps before retreating, running backwards with a playful grin.  
“It?”  
“Tag. I pat you and then you chase me, you touch me, and then I’m ‘it’.”  
“I touch you?”  
Dean was about to correct him, then shrugged and his grin widened. “Sure. Dirty as you like it.”  
Castiel decided he would probably like this game. He set after Dean with a few stunted leaps, then they were both tearing around the grass, avoiding their horses, laughter coming out with every breath.  
Castiel swerved in zigzags, almost falling over every time Dean changed direction suddenly. Castiel had never run so carelessly; he could barely work out how to turn - it took nearly a full minute before he caught Dean around the arm, hand dragging his sleeve. Dean huffed a congratulations before rounding on Castiel with fake menace. Castiel had expected this next part to be full of hands, Dean suddenly lifting his shirt and sliding his fingers up over a nipple - but instead, Castiel found himself shrieking with joy as Dean gave chase.  
Castiel stumbled more than a few times, bare feet not finding grass as easy to run on as Dean’s boots. Dean actually seemed to realise this, and called a truce to pull his boots off. Castiel took the moment to crouch on the edge of the lake and take a handful of water, drinking deeply. He was out of breath, a burn riding in his throat. It had happened before, but never from this kind of running.  
“Truce over, in three, two, one―”  
Castiel jerked away from the pool and whooped as he crossed the grass again, pleased to see Dean’s pale feet slipping on it as much as his did. Dean snatched at his shirt, almost careering into a bush as Castiel rounded away.  
He feinted, ducked Dean’s arms, and leapt clean out of his reach. Dean would never catch him now; Castiel had improved too much. Dean had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath, leaning over his knees with a hand up to indicate Castiel should wait for him.  
This third time he did it, Castiel got too close. It was a ploy, he realised. He convulsed with a sharp laugh as Dean’s arms closed around his middle, knocking them both to the ground. Castiel rolled over, limbs heavy from running, lungs heaving. Dean laughed and laughed, and Castiel sighed, eyes crinkled so tightly that he felt the strain on his cheeks.  
“Oh man,” Dean puffed, a hand flopping down over his face, “we’re such children.”  
Castiel rolled his head to look at Dean, hard breath mixing between them. He chuckled, seeing Dean’s half-closed eyes. “There’s no point in being grown up, if you can’t be childish sometimes.”  
Dean dipped his head sideways in acceptance, mouth open as he panted. “I haven’t run and jumped around like that since I was a kid. Guard kinda... took my childhood.” He licked his lips and closed his eyes, head turned to the leaves above.  
“I never had a childhood,” Castiel countered. “I see no problem in us both making up for that loss now, together.”  
“With added sex.”  
Castiel smiled. “Lots of sex.” He rolled over to kiss Dean on tired lips.  
“Hey,” Dean said, swallowing. “Could we do it now?”  
“It?”  
Dean grinned. “Sex.”  
“Your libido is very easily enticed, “ Castiel said down at him, still leaning over him on an elbow.  
“Hey, what can I say? I’m twenty-six and I have a fallen angel who puts out at the drop of a hat. You can’t blame me.”  
Castiel smirked, then his smile fell. After a second it picked right back up, fiendish. “Dean?”  
“Hm?”  
“Call me a slut.”  
Dean’s eyes snapped open. “What?”  
Castiel scanned Dean’s face, seeing the shock plastered over it. He took a small breath. “You enjoyed the word before Meg ruined everything. You enjoyed being a, what was it? Man-slut.”  
Dean laughed nervously.  
“I don’t think Meg was fair to accuse me of something that was in fact untrue, in the manner she did it.”  
“Uh, _yeah_ Cas - she cut it into your _skin_ \- that’s not fair, there’s nothing about that that’s fair.”  
“I like the word,” Castiel said. “I like what it means. Meg means nothing to me and so her accusations mean nothing. You mean everything. And I think you would enjoy calling me a slut, in any case.”  
Dean eyed him warily. He was not as comfortable with this idea as Castiel had thought he would be.  
“You don’t have to,” Castiel added. “I would have liked to spread my legs for you, but...” He sat up, turning his head away. He said in an airy voice, “Libidos are such fickle things, aren’t they?”  
Dean sat up with a jolt. “Slut.”  
Castiel smiled at the lake, feeling a swirl of arousal in his gut. “Say it again.”  
“Slut,” Dean said, shuffling closer. Castiel kept his head turned, biting his lower lip. His eyes fell closed as Dean pressed his lips right to his ear, stubble tickly on the soft skin. “You’re my filthy fallen angel slut, Cas.”  
Castiel moaned, falling back against Dean’s chest behind him. He looked up into his shining green eyes, meeting with Dean’s upside-down face. His eyes were darkened, but only a little as the daylight was bright, even in the shade. Dean leaned down to kiss him. His lips met Castiel’s the wrong way up, Dean’s nose in his chin, and Castiel’s own nose pressed down by Dean’s bristled face.  
When Dean rocked their lips open, Castiel’s tongue reached to touch Dean’s lips, tasting the summer heat on his skin. Castiel sighed into him, kissing their lips closed again, nudging Dean’s face away so he could speak.  
“Take my clothes off,” he whispered.  
“What’re you gonna do when you’re naked?” Dean asked, tilting his head. His voice was gruff with building arousal, and Castiel loved that voice. It sent shivers down his spine. That voice meant pleasure.  
“I’m not going to do anything,” Castiel said, blinking hard and letting his eyelashes dance on Dean’s cheek as he leaned over him. “You’re going to fuck me.”  
“Am I now?” Dean breathed, and Castiel knew he’d gotten to him. Dean’s voice was shaking a tiny bit.  
“Yes. In the water. You’re going to fuck in me in Limn’mere’s stream pool. With your man-slut dick.”  
Dean guffawed, headbutting Castiel as he rolled into him. “Oh God, no, Cas. There’s dirty-talk, and then there’s just plain hilarious,” he huffed, shaking above Castiel. “I think you need to work on that, honey.”  
“I’m cherry pie.”  
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean said, kissing him once on the lips. He broke the kiss to laugh once more. “Wow, I am never calling you that again.”  
“Call me a slut,” Castiel repeated, running his hands through the hem of his shirt, taking it off himself since Dean wasn’t going to do it.  
Dean’s hands grabbed his, and rolled the blue shirt off for him, pulling it over Castiel’s head and off his arms. “It’s not affectionate though,” he said, kissing Castiel’s chest, then each of his ribs, running a hand up his underarm to keep it raised as he trailed kisses to Castiel’s armpit.  
Castiel felt a tickle there and yelped, scrambling away. Dean grinned at him and tugged his own shirt off, still kneeling. Castiel went for the buttons on his own trousers, spreading his knees apart in the grass, hearing stalks snapping as he dragged them. “Why does what you call me have to be affectionate?” Castiel asked, slipping a hand into his trousers and touching himself as he watched Dean pull his own trousers off.  
Dean lay back and thrust his hips slowly off the ground, pushing his breeches down with his fingertips. His stiffened cock sprung free, lifting into the air, and he smirked as Castiel gasped.  
“Because,” Dean said, taking himself in hand and twisting. His shoulders were still pressed into the grass, his feet keeping his hips raised. “Because I can’t live the rest of our lives, going, ‘Hey, slut, pass the butter.’”  
Castiel laughed then, feeling a pulse in his cock as the vibration ripped through him. He leaked pre-come into his trousers, which he then slid a hand to touch. “But you would say it, when we make love. When you’re up against me. When my legs are open and I’m begging you to fuck me harder.”  
Dean turned his eyes to Castiel, lips parted and slightly reddened. “Yeah, Cas. If that’s what you want.”  
Castiel nodded, crawling forward to lie on his front, cock pressed into the cool grass, trousers parted around it. He leant up on his elbows, watching Dean touch himself from a half-pace away. Castiel tilted his head, following the angle Dean was lying at, his lower half still arched over the ground.  
“We should get into the water before you get too tired,” he said, watching Dean’s throat pull up as he swallowed.  
“I’m twenty-six, I don’t get tired.”  
“I can feel your lie, Dean,” Castiel smirked, standing up. Dean dropped his fist away from between his legs and reached his hand to slap into Castiel’s, letting him pull him up. Castiel’s eyes stayed on Dean’s lips, not letting Dean stop moving when he was standing, tugging him all the way so their mouths closed the distance between them.  
Castiel sighed against Dean, hand slipping over Dean’s cock and fingering the slit, massaging pre-come into the head. Dean moaned, whole body sagging into Castiel.  
Dean nosed away from the kiss, eyes focused and intent on Castiel’s. “You really wanna fuck in the water?”  
“This may be our last time here,” Castiel reminded him. “I don’t think we’ll manage to get out here any other time before we leave the city. If there were any place to make love here, don’t you think the water would be the most obvious?”  
Dean chuckled, then swayed his hips into Castiel’s and began to rub against him. “Sex is usually done on a bed.”  
“I liked the time we were in the mud. And when I saw your manhood for the first time, under the water.”  
Dean shoved Castiel back a step, grinning at him. “Dude, you pulled my breeches off me!”  
“It was an accident,” Castiel huffed, grabbing Dean by the wrist and turning to pull him to the water. Dean followed willingly. “Although I must admit,” Castiel continued, “I was hoping I would see you naked at the time. Perhaps my hand slipped.”  
Dean didn’t let Castiel take his trousers off before he got to the water, taking him by the waistband and hauling him backwards into the pool. The surface lapped coolly around the material, which puffed up at the ankles until the tension broke and Castiel’s legs were swallowed heavily by the water.  
“If I continue to wear these, it will make it very difficult for you to do what I want you to do,” Castiel complained, thigh-deep and completely submerged from there downwards.  
Dean raised an eyebrow, dragging Castiel out into the part of the pool where the trees were thinnest overhead, and the sun brighter over the water. “What do you want me to do?”  
“I already told you. Fuck me.”  
Castiel felt very strange as the line of water crept into his trousers, his balls feeling like they were floating, his erection hot against the warm water. Dean took him by the lower back and pulled him close, their feet barely on tiptoes in the sand of the floor.  
“How should I fuck you, exactly?” Dean asked him, eyes on Castiel’s lips.  
Castiel swallowed. “Over here,” he said, surging away from Dean and swimming to the far side of the pool, the slightly heavier-leaved trees drifting their branches in the water, ferns overhanging the rocks at the side. Castiel stood on a rough, flat rock under the surface, like a platform. Here, the water was just high enough to come up to his sternum, lapping at his nipples. Dean followed, swimming hand-over-head until he was next to him.  
Castiel put his hands on the grey rock behind him, possibly the same exact one he’d found a frog on some time ago. He lifted himself easily, lighter in the water. He wrapped his thighs around Dean’s naked hips, feeling Dean’s cock pressing a firm line into the cleft of his ass through his sodden trousers.  
He rolled his body subtly, liking the eye-flicker it got from Dean as wet cloth rubbed at him. “Take my trousers off, and fuck me.”  
Dean said nothing more on the matter. He grabbed Castiel by the hips and slid his hands down, taking the trousers with them. Castiel let his legs bob free so Dean could denude him. Of course, Castiel hadn’t bothered with breeches today. He’d known they’d just be a hassle.  
Dean hurled the trousers over the water with great precision, and they landed with a wet thump onto the wooden dock. Castiel wrapped his thighs back around Dean, and watched as the other man turned his hungry gaze on him.  
Dean tried to rock forward to slip their cocks together, but Castiel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He sank down a few inches in the water, only one hand holding him up on the rock now. Dean’s feet were planted on solid rock, and he didn’t move.  
“Here, give me your hand,” Castiel said, holding out his right palm for Dean to place his left into. Castiel directed it downwards, letting his back rest against the rock behind him, ferns tickling his shoulders. Dean’s fingers twitched as they brushed Castiel’s skin, across his thighs, a fingertip through the hair of his perineum. Castiel felt fingers press where he’d been aiming for, and he pushed Dean’s hand into him, letting him know.  
Dean glanced down at his hand, where it had been placed between their bodies in the water, and then up at Castiel’s face. “There?”  
Castiel inclined his head, actually seeing the light around him brighten as his pupils dilated further. “Fuck me.”  
“A-are you su―”  
Castiel grunted and thrust into Dean’s fingers, trying to get him to take the hint. “Do it, Dean.”  
Dean hesitated, eyes searching the space beside Castiel’s head, always falling back to his eyes. “Sodomy is like, really bad, Cas - spiritually, or something. Stuff shouldn’t go _in_ there.”  
“Do I look like I care?” Castiel asked him, eyes half closed as he rolled his head a little.  
“Uh. No.” Dean licked his lips, then gulped. Then he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Oh, we’re going to Hell,” he breathed, then pressed a single finger inside Castiel.  
Castiel’s head fell back as he gasped, hands coming up to rest on Dean’s shoulders, letting him take most of his weight. He leant his shoulders on the rock behind him, one elbow hooked over it.  
Dean’s eyes were on him, Castiel knew. He was watching every small shudder Castiel made as he felt the first knuckle breach him. Castiel closed his mouth and moaned.  
“What does it feel like?” Dean asked, voice breathy.  
Castiel gulped, feeling his neck strain as his head was still tipped back. “It feels like... your finger is inside me. That’s what it feels like.” He mewled and bucked into Dean’s hand, rocking his finger an inch deeper.  
“It kinda feels like,” Dean started, pausing as he thought, “like a mouth. Like someone’s lips, really tightly closed, and then... You get past that,” he paused again to rub his cock against Castiel’s thigh, grunting under his breath, “and it’s soft and hot and kinda... like the inside of your cheek.”  
“It does feel very tight,” Castiel conceded, grunting as Dean’s finger twisted inside him. “It needs to be slicker―”  
“I can hardly spit on you, we’re underwater,” Dean said, pulling his finger away for a moment to grab Castiel to buck into him, his cock desperate for attention. Castiel growled and slid his legs down Dean’s thighs, then back up and hooked back around his hips, as Dean went back to using his fingers. He slipped the same finger inside, and Castiel sighed through his nose, feeling the tightness return.  
“Wait,” Castiel said, slipping a hand to caress Dean’s as it pressed at his hole. “Pull your finger out for a second.” Dean did so, and Castiel moved his fingertips over Dean’s wet hand. As Dean watched Castiel work, he gasped. His fingers were now coated in something clear and slippery. Castiel didn’t know what it was, but angel mojo was exceedingly good for creating it.  
“Did you just mojo some girl slick?” Dean asked, eyebrow crooked.  
“Girl slick?”  
Dean nodded. “Girls make stuff slippery all by themselves when you screw them.”  
Castiel didn’t like that thought at all, and he scowled at Dean. Dean shrugged with a grin and watched as Castiel slipped one of his own slim fingers inside himself, coating part of his inside with the slippery fluid. As he removed his finger, Dean kissed Castiel’s cheek and leaned in again, pressing his own slickened finger back inside Castiel.  
Castiel yelped as the slick made all the difference; Dean’s finger pressed in fast, sliding two knuckles deep all at once. Castiel panted as Dean withdrew his finger halfway, then twisted it back in.  
“Does it hurt?” Dean asked. “Tiny hole, it’s gotta be like... you know. Pushing out a you-know-what.”  
“Please do not discuss that while we are doing _this_.”  
“Sorry.”  
Castiel licked his lips, grunting as Dean curled his finger inside him. “It d- does hurt a little bit, but not much. I’ve done it before.”  
Dean pulled his head away from Castiel’s cheek suddenly. “Before? With who?”  
Castiel laughed, tugging Dean back to him by his hair. “With my own hand, Dean.” Dean breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Castiel continued, “Pamela brought me some oil. I practised for this. She told me how to clean myself, and how to use my hand.”  
“You put your own fingers in?” Dean watched as his own knuckle breached Castiel again.  
“I managed to get four fingers in the other night,” he told Dean, eyes flicking between Dean’s as he curled his finger again.  
“Four?” Dean pulled one of Castiel’s hands off his shoulder, squishing his fingers together so Dean could see how big they were. “Eh, my dick’s about that big. You could take me.”  
Castiel smirked, kissing Dean’s chin and rocking forward. “Put another finger inside me. Stretch me wide.”  
Dean physically trembled, and Castiel hummed an amused note. Dean kept his eyes on his hands as he carefully straightened another finger, the scratch of a fingernail barely noticeable as he slid it in beside the first. Castiel’s mouth fell open as he gasped, panting.  
“Does it feel good, or...?”  
Castiel nodded. “It is strange but... there is something pleasurable about it. Not only that it is your hand inside me―”  
“Which is totally hot, by the way.”  
“―but the way it feels, is... I feel full. Aware of a hole that I don’t usually notice. Something about feeling it there is arousing.”  
“Plus, this way,” Dean muttered, rolling a line of kisses into Castiel’s jaw, “I can actually get my cock inside you. Like I can with a girl. You could ride me.”  
“Ride?”  
“I just hold onto you, and you kind of bounce on me. Like you’re riding a bucking horse. Fuck yourself on me.”  
Castiel grunted as he heard Dean’s voice deepen, a rumble in his throat. He loved the things lust did to their voices. Even his own rumble sent a course of pleasure through him as he moaned.  
It could have been seconds that passed, maybe minutes - it felt like _hours_ \- but it was all filled with small, heartfelt sounds; Castiel knew what he wanted, but it took some effort before he could mutter, “Put - put another finger...”  
“You’re still too tight for―”  
“I’ll get used to it, just put something in me!” Castiel’s head fell back again as he whimpered. He wanted to be _full_ already.  
“You’re hot when you’re horny,” Dean growled, slipping a third finger in, only pushing past the muscle before Castiel’s own spasm pushed him back out. Dean tried again, and Castiel sighed.  
“I’m always hot.”  
Dean smirked. “It’s true. But you’re hot as _hell_ when you’re naked and wiggling and dripping all over yourself.”  
Castiel groaned, hands combing through Dean’s damp hair. Dean rolled his head into the touch, pressing a tiny kiss to the inside of Castiel’s wrist. “Cas, jerk me? I need―”  
Castiel’s hand had already slung a fist under the water and around Dean’s cock, sliding down to his base in one long motion, squeezing tightly. Dean whispered a cuss and bit his lower lip, watching Castiel’s hand on him. Castiel weighed Dean’s balls in his hand, their flesh filling his palm as he pressed up.  
“Another finger.”  
“Cas―”  
“I wanna be _fucked_ , Dean,” he breathed, getting desperate. He only smushed his words together when he was desperate.  
“Putting more stuff in too soon ain’t gonna get us there any faster, Cas, it’s just gonna make it hurt more when I push in.”  
“Are you the owner of my anus?” Castiel snarked at him.  
“Do you want me to be?”  
Castiel sighed, writhing. “Put another finger inside me, Dean.”  
Dean pressed his lips in a line, but gave in when Castiel glared at him. “Fine.” He slipped in his last finger, thumb brushing between Castiel’s thighs as he held them apart.  
Castiel bucked onto him, forcing all four fingers past the second knuckle. Castiel’s face flushed hot, gasping again. His gasp turned into a long drawn-out whimper as Dean twisted his hand.  
“Deeean,” Castiel whined, dizzy. “Press - there’s something there, pr-press it―”  
Dean frowned at him. “What’re you on about?”  
Castiel met his eyes, delirious. “Just inside. Pamela t-told me, she said there’s something just there, I couldn’t f-find it before, but it’s―” he broke off to drag in another long, open-mouthed gasp, “it’s there, your fingertip is just on it―”  
Dean looked between their bodies, and Castiel knew he saw his hand, half of it inside Castiel, swallowed by him. “What finger should I move?”  
Castiel shivered. “I - I don’t know, I can’t tell you fingers apart from here,” he groaned, trying for irritated but all his words turned into an extended drag of pleasure.  
Dean wriggled each of them in turn. The first two got a surprised hiccup from Castiel as a shock of bliss found him, tingling strangely all the way to his toes, making his knees weak. On the third, Castiel almost lost his grip on Dean as he fell backwards, gasping with a wide-open mouth, eyes open as far as they went. His whole body became an explosion of pleasure, needles of colour and sensation blazing in every nerve of his skin.  
“Oh - oh m-mm...”  
“There?” Dean asked, pointlessly. He did it again. Castiel spasmed, kicking the water, a leg rising up past the surface and kneeing Dean in the back. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. It was too much, too good―  
“Y-yy... Deaaan...”  
“Whoa, don’t lose it yet, I’m not even anywhere near done.”  
“Don’t - don’t pull out, don’t―”  
Dean waited patiently as Castiel calmed down, clinging to the back of his neck, eyes on Dean’s but unfocused, his vision slightly fuzzy.  
“Please fuck me, fuck me, fuck me―”  
“All right, hang on―”  
Castiel whimpered as Dean withdrew his hand, shaking it out in the water, probably feeling strange after being inside something so tight and warm, and then loosed into cool water.  
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Castiel breathed, shivering as he grabbed Dean’s cock, slicking it from base to tip without even thinking. He wanted it, he _needed_ it so badly. “Now, fuck me... _now_ , Dean!”  
Dean nodded, holding Castiel by the back of the hips with both hands as he tried to push in. He pressed into Castiel’s perineum and slipped away, and Castiel grunted frustratedly. “Guide your-... yourself in, push in, push - fuck me―” he muttered, feeling one of Dean’s hands leave his back and guide his cockhead up to Castiel’s entrance.  
Castiel’s mouth gaped silently, eyes shut, as Dean slipped inside him, muscle stretching around him, swallowing him up.  
“Oh my God,” Dean breathed, shifting Castiel’s body against him so he could pull him closer, one arm banded around his lower back, the other around his shoulders. He kissed Castiel’s collarbone, biting gently. “Oh my G-... oh fuck. That’s―”  
“So tight, so _tight_ ―”  
Dean let Castiel sink onto him all the way down, resting on the base of Dean’s cock, Dean’s wiry hair just tingling at Castiel’s hole. They didn’t move, only held each other and let Castiel adjust.  
“You’re inside me, you’re _inside_ me,” Castiel breathed into Dean’s ear. “You’ve never been th-this close to me, it’s like you’re―” he shuddered, voice breaking as Dean shrugged him upward, cock slipping an inch up and then back down. “You’re a part of me, we’re one―”  
Dean held Castiel tightly and bounced him up again, Castiel legs holding onto him weakly around his back, crossed over the peak of Dean’s buttocks.  
“This is fucking,” Dean whispered, gaze lowered to Castiel’s cheeks as he spoke against his lips. “This is what the word means.”  
“Fuck me more. I want to feel you moving in me.” Castiel’s lips dragged over Dean’s cheek, parted and unable to close. He felt lust burning in him like fire, wanting nothing more than Dean pressing into him, again and again, over and over.  
Dean started to bounce him, distressing the water, and Castiel’s feet curled, thighs clenching around him. They both moaned as Castiel bucked his hips forward, rocking into Dean’s movements.  
Dean set up a rhythm, in time with their panting breaths. “You feel that, Cas?”  
“Yes - _yes_ ,” Castiel hissed, grabbing a handful of Dean’s hair and dragging his lips to his own, kissing clumsily, mouth opening and shutting pointlessly and at random. Castiel could feel the texture of his own lips as he pulled them over Dean’s stubble; he was swollen and soft, hot to his own touch. His kiss would be like the brush of a rose petal, silky smooth.  
He trailed a path on Dean’s lips with the tip of his tongue, noses bumping as Dean kept on thrusting, Castiel bobbing in the water.  
“Cas, do you wanna - do you wanna do the moving?”  
“Ride you?”  
Dean nodded gracelessly, clearly eager. Castiel wriggled in his arms, and despite his words, Dean couldn’t really stop himself from bucking, water sloshing as Castiel’s elbows hit the water again and again.  
“On three,” Castiel said, “I’ll start moving.”  
“Threetwoone - okay go,” Dean said, and Castiel didn’t really need anything else.  
He began to bounce in the same rhythm, this time pressing his ankles on the backs of Dean’s legs, holding onto his shoulders and using his own weight to rock them both.  
Dean groaned, hands splayed open on Castiel’s buttocks. A finger crept down and Castiel felt it touching at the place Dean’s member slid inside him, feeling how the muscles contracted, relaxed, moved around his cock.  
“Touch it,” Castiel encouraged. “Feel it happening.”  
Dean caught his eye, green locking to Castiel’s blue. His lips were parted, both men panting endlessly. Dean’s hand crept forward, fingers and palm sliding around the base of his own cock, then turning it around, pressing out against Castiel’s ass, stroking at his hole.  
Castiel felt his ass caressed by soft fingers, their pads a trace wrinkly from the water. Dean felt at their slickened skin, where they locked together, sliding.  
“What does it feel like?” Castiel asked, the last syllable half-lost to a groan.  
Dean sighed out a soft note, head down as he watched Castiel’s untouched cock bob up and down just under the surface of the pool, its stiffness waned only a slight. “My dick’s never been this slippy,” Dean said, licking his lips. “And when it goes into you, it - _uhh_ \- your butt kind of suck-... sucks it in, and it’s...” He grunted, swallowing hard. “God, you’re so tight, it’s not even... it’s not real, Jesus, it’s so fucking tight―”  
“What else do you feel?” Castiel prompted, adjusting his legs higher up Dean’s back, leaning down from his shoulders so his arms were fully stretched out, just hanging off Dean.  
Dean watched him lay out in front of him, Castiel’s chest underwater now. “When I leak inside you... I can feel it rubbing back on me, only just. I m-might be imagining that, but God it’s hot.”  
“You like feeling your own wetness?”  
Dean trembled into Castiel, hands groping for a hold on him as he slipped further down, shoulders resting on the rock behind him again now. “You made me like it. Slut.”  
Castiel keened, and he felt a pulse of heat leave him, washed away in the cool water. “Wh-what did I do, how did I make you―?”  
Dean grabbed Castiel and hauled him right up close again, walking forwards a few stumbling steps on the rocky platform, pressing him right up against the rock on the side. “You fucking stuck your finger between my legs and you fucking _licked_ your jizz off of me,” Dean growled. “It was the grossest thing I ever saw.”  
“But it made you like it?” Castiel asked, letting Dean take the lead again as he started to rock upward into him. The tightness was easing, replaced by soreness and the building pleasure that, for whatever reason, came with it.  
“Yes,” Dean said, licking a long stripe up Castiel’s throat; he tipped his head back to let him lick all the way to his chin, bristling through his stubble. “I should _hate_ jizz, I’m a dude, I like girls, and girls don’t jizz like guys do - but fuck, I just wanna - I wanna swallow when you come, I wanna put it in mouth, rub it the fuck all over me...” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s neck, teeth nibbling at him gently.  
“Dean - Dean, if I came now, w-what would you do?”  
“Fuck,” Dean replied, sighing. “I wanna... I wanna watch you. Watch it come out of you.”  
“I could come in the water,” Castiel said, eyes on Dean’s face. “We could watch it together.”  
Dean nodded, then nodded again, then moaned. “I’ll stop fucking you to watch.”  
Castiel huffed out a tiny laugh, smirking at Dean. He loved seeing him so enthralled. It was a curious thing, orgasm. A sudden burst of pleasure, marking the end - that is, until the next time. But Castiel got it; he understood what Dean loved so much about it. It wasn’t even his own pleasure; it was seeing his work completed, seeing Castiel peak. Castiel’s pleasure, at Dean’s hand. At the touch of his body, of his body inside Castiel’s own. Causing it.  
“H-how close are you?” Dean whispered, hips still jouncing up, pounding into Castiel. Their whole bodies swayed with the motion, the water around them turbulent.  
Castiel stroked the back of Dean’s neck, his toes curling. “Very... v-... maybe ten seconds―”  
“Okay... okay,” Dean muttered, trying very hard to still his hips. Castiel groaned as the friction in him slowed, the slip of muscles breaking their rhythm. Dean stayed inside him, Castiel sliding down to lock around his hips, arms around his shoulders. Dean breathed hard, whole body tensing to try not to buck into Castiel.  
“Put your hand on me, ‘m almost - almost there―” Castiel sighed. His eyelids were half closed, but his eyes were rolled back, and he could only see the rush of colours behind his lids, popping and tingling like dark fireflies. His building orgasm was subsiding as Dean stopped moving, but he was still on edge. He just needed that extra push.  
Dean removed a hand from Castiel’s back and slid it between their bodies, almost not enough space between his own stomach and Castiel’s hips to take hold of him. Castiel wiggled upward, shifting his weight so Dean could take him. Dean let out a tiny sound as his hand rounded Castiel’s cock, skin dragging ever so slightly.  
Castiel’s breathing came hard and sluggish, eyes locked on Dean’s as Dean pumped him. Castiel gulped, breath stopping for second. Then his mouth opened and he grunted, shivering. “Watch - watch it, it’s coming, I’m com―”  
Dean turned his head down, eyes on Castiel’s cock. Castiel watched his rapt expression for a second, eyes lingering on his lips. Then he set his head against Dean’s and together they watched as Castiel’s climax rose up through him, cock throbbing in Dean’s hand. Castiel wheezed like he was out of breath, like he’d breathed when they’d been running earlier. His testicles clenched tight, and he whimpered.  
He stopped panting as they saw the first bead of white escape his tip. Dean stopped too, trying not to disturb the water.  
It looked like white smoke was emerging from Castiel, spreading in the water, carried by the tiny currents. It swirled and unfurled in messy lines; like a paintbrush with not enough paint, dragged in the space between them. It was twisting about like ink, Castiel was spilling himself in clouds under the surface.  
Dean let go of Castiel’s cock as he was half done, not quite empty yet - he put a fingertip over Castiel’s slit, just gently, and Castiel felt the minute resistance as semen pushed into Dean’s finger. It dispersed out into the pool, thin streams lost like they were dissolving.  
Only minuscule clumps remained, floating under the water and drifting in the current. Castiel finished, and he breathed again, huffing out heavy puffs on Dean’s cheek. Dean licked his lips, hand exploring the clouds until they were almost gone. It escaped from between his fingers, impossible to catch.  
“Your turn now,” Castiel breathed to him, kissing his cheek very softly. “Your turn to come.”  
Dean turned and mouthed at Castiel’s neck, pulling skin into his mouth wetly, opening and shutting his lips over him. He bucked once, and Castiel grunted. He shuffled his legs around Dean again, preparing for Dean to thrust inside him like before.  
“Let me lie back,” Castiel said, tugging Dean toward him. Dean walked forward a step, cool waterline wobbling at Castiel’s shoulder blades. Castiel leaned backwards until his arms were brushing ferns, elbows on the rocks at the side of the pool. He tugged Dean right up against him with his legs, then bumped him back a little. “Fuck me and watch. Tell me what’s happening.”  
Dean whimpered a tiny sound, and Castiel felt a pulse of heat inside. Dean couldn’t buck properly at the moment, but in a second, Castiel wanted him to be thrusting in and out of him, feeling every part of him against his walls.  
Dean took Castiel’s thighs in open hands and hefted one over his shoulder, the other held to his hip, spread away from Castiel and himself. Castiel’s weight was mostly on his own arms now, resting on the rocks.  
Dean started to rock into Castiel, sighing outward on every movement. It was gentle at first, then the rhythm began. Castiel still felt the pleasure of it, even if it didn’t shoot straight to his dick. He felt the twisting in his gut, pure unadulterated arousal. There was a cock inside him, and it was fucking him. Dean was fucking him. He loved to say it in his head, he loved that it was _fact_.  
“Tell me what it looks like,” Castiel sighed, gaze riveted on Dean’s entranced expression. His eyes were almost closed, bottom lip held in a curve, swollen. He had very feminine lips, and Castiel knew that Dean knew it. He knew he secretly liked that about himself.  
Dean heard his request and opened his eyes, lids still hooded. He considered Castiel’s face, neck tensing as he swallowed. Then he dropped his gaze to between their legs, where their bodies met.  
Dean watched for a few seconds, and Castiel saw his expression change. It went from curiosity through fascination, then when Dean glanced back at him, it was one of lucid exhilaration. Dean looked back down to describe what he saw as it happened.  
“My cock... ‘s really red, it’s so goddamn tight - your...” Dean closed his eyes and moaned, head tipping back. It lasted a second and then he was right back, licking his lips to continue. “When I fuck into you, you kinda rock with it, and I just go straight in, there’s... I shouldn’t fit in there, I’m too big for that... Jesus, it’s... _mhhh_ ―”  
Dean thrusted harder for a few strokes, evidently very turned on by just the sight of himself lost inside another man. Castiel knew he was thinking it, he knew that was what Dean was so excited about. Male, a man. That’s what Castiel was. And Dean loved it.  
Dean had to slow down, stop disturbing the water so violently, in order to see what was happening. They both whimpered as the impassioned bumping lessened, Castiel feeling the strain on his muscles a little more as Dean slowed.  
“Fuck, _fuck_ \- God, Cas, your ass, it’s so open, I can see it... It curves down, and then in the middle, your hole’s all stretched around mm... open so wide. Ohh...”  
“What’d you feel?” Castiel asked him, curious. His voice felt like it was coming from his chest, it was so low. It rumbled all the way through him.  
Dean hissed out a sigh, biting his lip as he kept his eyes between them. “When you clench, it’s - it’s like when you were blowing me, like when you swallow. It’s kinda burning inside, it’s so tight, Cas - don’t think you know how fucking _tight_ this is...”  
“Is... is it good?”  
Dean nodded, head still rocking up and down a few seconds later when he whined. “Cas, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna―”  
“Do it inside me,” Castiel said quickly. He pushed himself off the rocks and grabbed for Dean’s shoulders. He leaned into him and let Dean bounce his weight on his hips again, a leg sliding down from his shoulder and twisting over Dean’s hands. Dean held him from underneath, grunting.  
“In-inside?”  
“So I can feel it. All over me, wet on the inside.”  
Dean let out a gruff sound against Castiel’s collarbone, teeth dragging on the skin. “It’d still be there in a few... few hours.”  
“Still wet.”  
Dean shuddered, gasping over and over. “Oh, Cas. I’m gonna do it, gonna jizz in you.”  
“Do it, Dean.” Castiel kissed him, Dean’s lips shaking too much to press back more than a messy drag.  
Dean moaned, hands clenching into Castiel’s thighs. He felt the pressure of every finger, and Dean’s hips locking solid into him, movements erratic and less controlled.  
Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s when he came; Castiel pulled his head back on purpose so he could look at him. He watched Dean’s eyes open wide, pupils almost not sure if they were constricting or dilating. Dean’s whole face was shocked with pleasure.  
“I can feel that,” Castiel breathed, mouth open. “I can feel you―”  
Dean hugged Castiel tight to him, dropping his thighs and letting him wobble on his own two feet.  
Arms encircled his whole body, hauling him close. Dean buried his face in Castiel’s neck, not kissing, just holding him. It all seemed to be over, Dean had slipped out of him so quickly that Castiel hadn’t noticed until he was already being held.  
“...Dean?”  
Dean shook his head, huffing wetly into Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s not that you’re a man, Cas. That’s not wh-... that’s not why or _what_ I fucking love so much.”  
Castiel gulped, the high of Dean’s orgasm still holding him in some kind of stasis. “Then - what?”  
“God, Cas, you’re a fucking idiot.” Dean pulled Castiel impossibly closer, the wet heat of Dean’s softening cock pressed between their thighs. “If you’re gonna send me your thoughts with your freaky eye contact thing... at least get your facts straight.”  
Castiel shook his head, only a nudge on the side of Dean’s ear. “Your pleasure was derived from... friction, and the physical aspects of my gender―?”  
“No - Jesus, Cas―” Dean pulled Castiel away, clutching him by the shoulders. “It’s you, Cas. Why don’t you ever get that?”  
“Me?”  
Dean scowled at him despairingly. He leant his head forward and rested it on Castiel’s, kissing him with a gentle smack of lips on his. “If I were doing this butt-fucking thing with any other guy, I’d be terrified. I’d have backed out a million little tingles ago. It’s not that you’re a guy. It’s not that you’re a - a goddamn frog, even. It’s you.”  
Castiel slid a hand over the side of Dean’s face, eyes turned just slightly so he could see him, head down and lost in thought. “I don’t know what to say, Dean.”  
Dean twisted his head to kiss Castiel, lips soft and wet. “Just shut up. This was friggin’ awesome. And I need to lie down.”  
Castiel smiled into the loose kiss, running a hand over Dean’s damp hair. Dean took his wrist and pulled Castiel off the flat rock, dropping him again so they could swim. Castiel’s limbs were heavy and shaking, and he swam clumsily, much like Dean.  
Dean dragged his feet up onto the tiny beach, feet skimming in the grass as he crossed to the picnic basket. Castiel followed. Being on land, having to support the weight of his own legs again after being so effortlessly balanced on another person, felt exceedingly peculiar.  
Dean leaned down to open the basket, tugging out the blanket and spreading it. Castiel saw his arms shaking, and as Dean fell onto the blanket, he flopped down, completely exhausted. Castiel kneeled, then lay on Dean’s right, face-down. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the other man.  
Dean had a hand over his face, breathing heavily still. The sun played on his skin, a glistening golden dance on the sheen of wetness over his throat. Castiel reached a hand over and delicately stroked the pooling water on Dean’s neck, watching it run in a single rivulet down onto the blanket.  
Dean lifted his hand and turned his eyes to see Castiel. They both smiled.  
Dean sighed happily and closed his eyes. “Gimmie a few minutes, I think I need a nap.”  
“I thought you said twenty-six-year-olds don’t get tired.”  
Dean looked over at him again. “Your vessel’s about twenty-six, right?”  
“Twenty-two, I believe.”  
Dean looked intrigued, and he focused completely on Castiel as he spoke. “You look older than me though.”  
Castiel pulled his lips into a soft line. “Jimmy was twenty-two when he died. I have been in his vessel for six years, and I have aged it.”  
Dean sat up on an elbow. “Oh, God. Did I just fuck some random dead guy?”  
Castiel laughed, eyes closing as he dropped his head, nose brushing the blanket under him. “No, Dean.” He reached a hand to touch Dean’s concerned face. “You fucked Castiel, a fallen angel.”  
Dean licked his lips and fell back to the blanket, clearly relieved. “So, wait. You age your vessel, so what happens when he gets to, like, eighty? People don’t even live that long.”  
“I imagine it would be very painful and traumatising to exist in an impossibly aged vessel. I assume I would have to be transferred to another vessel. And continue another life, again.”  
Dean looked at him sadly. “You’re really gonna live forever.”  
Castiel nodded. “I am sorry.”  
Dean blinked then closed his eyes. “Say something happy, I wanna sleep without nightmares about you and your immortal-ness.”  
“I can still feel your semen inside me.”  
Dean’s eyes shot back open. “Really?”  
Castiel licked his lower lip. “Do you want to see if you can touch it?”  
“Touch it?”  
“Touch it.” Castiel spread his legs apart, his knees brushing against the blanket. “Put a finger in me.”  
Dean seemed instantly less tired. He sat up in a series of heavy jolts, suddenly scrambling so he was lying against Castiel’s side. Castiel felt his hand caressing his buttock, finger slipping between his legs, stroking him.  
Castiel flinched. “That’s quite sore.”  
Dean hummed a note. He pressed a finger to him, not inside, but on the surface. Castiel squawked. “That hurt?” Dean asked, playfully.  
“Yes.” Castiel chuckled quietly, blushing. “You should - ow - stop now, it’s very sore.”  
Dean withdrew his finger slowly, wiping it on the grass. Castiel felt heat over his entire back, then weight on him as Dean lay on top of him. Dean’s flaccid cock lined up with the crease of his ass, and his hands came to rest on Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel dropped his elbows and lay down, enjoying having Dean as a human blanket.  
Dean’s foot rubbed on his own, one leg between each of Castiel’s. “You’re real nice to lie on,” Dean muttered on Castiel’s skin. “You have a cushy butt.”  
Castiel laughed, feeling Dean shuffling as he vibrated. “You think a lot less about what comes out of your mouth when you are tired.”  
“‘s true,” Dean agreed, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel felt stubble prickling his skin. “But I think that kind of thing all the time. I just don’t usually say it.”  
“Shh,” Castiel said. “I’m also tired, whether you believe it or not.”  
“Ngh,” Dean said, rolling off Castiel and flopping onto his back, arms splayed. “You’re cushy, but hard to relax on.”  
“Mm.”  
They were silent for a long while, sun fluttering over Castiel’s back, drying the water on it. Dean began to breathe slower, and Castiel cracked an eye open to watch him resting, Dean’s lips parted only a little.  
Dean was a heavy dreamer, always. He tossed and turned in his sleep, muttering nonsense about whatever happened to be playing on his mind. Sometimes it was nightmares, but Castiel was sure Dean only remembered half of them.  
Now, though, he looked totally at ease. Maybe it was the soft touch of the sun on his skin, maybe the lack of clothing restricting him, or the knowledge that this was a safe place. Perhaps it was the post-coital bliss, or maybe even the fact that Castiel was beside him. Whatever the reason, he looked perfect.  
Eventually Castiel closed his eyes, letting the sounds around them send him into slumber. Tree branches swaying, the chirrup of birds and the trickle of Limn’mere’s pool. Dean’s soft breaths.  
~  
“Pst.”  
“Nh?”  
“Hey, Cas, wake up.”  
“What is it?”  
“Shh, stay quiet. And don’t move quickly. Just turn around, real slow.”  
Castiel blinked the haze of sleep away, realising the sun had moved but not knowing how far. It felt like a single second had passed, lost in a blaze of sunlight. It was still warm, and breezy, and Castiel was still very naked.  
He lifted himself on his elbows and briefly met Dean’s eye - he was sitting up beside him, leaning back on his hands with his legs out in front of him. “Shh,” Dean repeated, hushed. “There’s a bird come to join us.”  
Castiel turned around very carefully. He managed to sit up like Dean, and followed his gaze. “Oh,” Castiel breathed, lips hanging in an awed expression. Dean caught the look on his face and grinned.  
“Do you know what kind it is?” Dean asked.  
Castiel watched it strut, its glorious blue feathers glimmering in sunlight. It had a gigantic green tail, flattened behind it and dragging like the train of one of the Priestess’ long dresses. Delicate, thin feathers sprang from its head, swaying as it moved.  
“No, I don’t,” Castiel breathed, not even able to look away to ask Dean directly, “do you know?”  
“It’s a peacock,” Dean said, lifting his knees and hugging them to his chest. “There’s a few around the castle, I’ve never seen one out here. ‘s gotta be a wild one, it’s not used to humans.”  
The bird must have been about the size of two or three chickens, feathers like shiny fish scales down its neck. There was a flash of orange on its side, which led into the tail, its feathers the most beautiful shade of green Castiel had ever seen. He had seen that shade before, and realised straight away that it was the exact same colour as Dean’s eyes.  
“It’s a boy peacock,” Dean said, and this time Castiel met his gaze, smiling as he examined the green that looked back.  
“Why does its name have ‘cock’ in it?” Castiel asked. “Is it a reference to its breeding equipment?”  
Dean laughed out loud before he could stop himself, and the bird looked at him sharply, wings flapping. Castiel raised a hand and commanded it to stay calm, and it did. It stared at the two men, finding them very strange.  
“I got no clue why it’s called that,” Dean sighed, still grinning. “I think the girls are called ‘hens’ anyway.”  
Castiel watched the bird as it began to peck through the grass, looking for insects. Dean said nothing more, but Castiel knew he was watching him rather than the bird. Dean seemed to do that a lot. If Castiel’s attention was on something, Dean watched him concentrating.  
As the peacock strutted off into the underbrush, Castiel sighed and smiled open-mouthed at Dean. “Thank you for waking me up, that was... it was wonderful.”  
Dean tilted his head sideways a little, acknowledging his thanks. “Wanna eat something?”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You should clean your hands. Your fingers have been in very unhygienic places.”  
Dean smirked. “You’re such a freak, Cas,” he said, but was already standing up to go wade into the water, shouting to Castiel from where he stood, “Look, cleaning!”  
Castiel grinned and shook his head, leaning over to pick out something from the basket. He offered Dean a bunch of grapes as he returned, who took them and sat down heavily.  
“Thanks,” Dean said, popping one in his mouth. He turned to Castiel with a grin. “Open wide―”  
“What―?” Castiel’s question was interrupted by the grape that suddenly landed on his tongue. “Mgh?”  
“Just eat it, Cas,” Dean laughed, holding up another grape to throw at Castiel. Castiel chewed and swallowed then hesitantly opened his mouth again. Six times in a row, without fail, Castiel found himself with a grape in his mouth before he was even aware Dean had aimed.  
“You are very good at - ack! - this. Your aim is impeccable.”  
Dean smirked, popping the last grape in his own mouth and setting the vine on the grass. “One day it’ll be put to good use, I dunno.” He leaned back on his hands and crossed his legs at the knee. “I don’t really wanna use it to kill people, you know?”  
“You’re a soldier―”  
“I never wanted to be a soldier. I got this... scholarship, and then... I’m part of the Guard. Poof, childhood gone, friends gone, life gone.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Parents gone.”  
“If you hadn’t been here, training, you would have been killed along with everyone else in the Massacre.”  
Dean closed his eyes. “You know as well as I do, Cas. That would’ve been better.”  
Castiel sat closer, hand finding Dean’s leg and stroking his thigh. “You would never have met me. And I would have been trapped in the castle with Meg forever. She would have done all the things to me that you helped to prevent her doing.”  
“I didn’t stop anything, Cas.”  
“You stopped me being alone,” Castiel said. He leaned around Dean’s shoulder and kissed his lips. Dean held still for a moment then kissed back, tongue flicking once at Castiel’s before they both pulled away.  
“You’re sweet, Cas, but...”  
“There is no but,” Castiel said. “You seem to think I am flawless.”  
Dean laughed, head falling back. “Yeah, it’s true though,” he huffed. “I mean, what’s even wrong with you, aside from things other people’ve done to you? Nothing.”  
“I lie and I become too focused on things. And I have a mole on my chest.”  
Dean laughed again. “It’s not a mole, it’s a freckle. And it’s cute.”  
“But you cannot deny that I have faults.”  
“Everyone has faults, Cas. There’s no use getting hung up on them. Just means you’re human.” He kissed Castiel once.  
Castiel searched Dean’s eyes for something, anything else. “But, Dean... I’m _not_ human.”  
“You’re as human as anyone.” Dean stroked Castiel’s back, then turned to hand him a slice of quiche. Castiel took it with both hands and tucked in, mind still in a gentle turmoil.  
Dean continued, “You’re immortal and magic, yeah, but you have faults, you eat, you sleep, you poop. You lie, you want things. You feel fear, and happiness, and... love. You’re human as me, Cas.”  
Castiel swallowed and stared at his food, unable to meet Dean’s eye. “Is that what it means to be human? To do those things?”  
“You gotta believe it as well.”  
Castiel looked up and frowned gently. “If I truly believed I was a peacock, would that make me a peacock?”  
Dean chuckled and shook his head. “It only counts if you did the things peacocks did. You have t’ eat bugs.”  
Castiel screwed up his face and determinedly ate his quiche instead.  
They tried a taste of everything, saving the wine for last. Dean ended up trying to pry open the cork with his teeth, but Castiel wrestled it out of his grip and used mojo instead. Dean sighed and let him pour.  
The glasses they drank from were two of Missouri’s, and were sturdy enough not to break from the horseback ride. They smelled a little musty, but the wine from them was tart with a sweet aftertaste, and Castiel gulped his first glass down all at once.  
Dean watched him drain the last drop, an amused frown on his face. “You ever been drunk, Cas?”  
Castiel startled and realised he didn’t want another glass of wine. “Once. I never wish to repeat that.”  
Dean grinned. “What happened?”  
“Death gave me a whole bottle of wine for my fallday. I only drank a few glasses before...” He cleared his throat. “I did not fare well.”  
“Usual human reaction?”  
Castiel looked down at his thighs, stroking the hair the right way. It had dried oddly as he’d lain on the blanket. “Cupid tells me that, yes, some people do spend days on end crying about nothing.”  
“ _Days?!_ ” Dean’s grin seemed to spread through his whole body.  
Castiel nodded his head. “Since then I have found myself very wary of alcohol consumption.”  
“Oh,” Dean said. “That’s why you didn’t want to drink the whole ale.”  
Castiel hugged his legs to his chest. “At the time, I supposed that if I were going to cry for days, at least I’d have something sensible to cry about.”  
“Which was?”  
Castiel glanced at Dean, not sure why he hadn’t remembered. “That was the night you took me to meet Gordon at a tavern.”  
Dean squinted at him. “Hm?”  
“You were going to spend the night making love to a woman. Instead of... me.”  
Dean’s brain clicked into gear. “Oohh,” he enunciated. “You were jealous.”  
Castiel blinked a few times, frowning. “That’s what the emotion was,” he realised. “It was very unpleasant.”  
Dean stroked a hand over Castiel’s bare shoulder, pressing warmly. “Sorry about that. Took me all of two minutes to learn my lesson though, you gotta give me some credit.”  
Castiel smiled. “Credit where credit is due, I believe it was my endless complaining and sulking and sullen dejected walking that changed your mind.”  
“You knew I was behind you.”  
“Of course.” Castiel smirked at Dean. “I was just waiting for you to join me.”  
Dean leaned a little closer to Castiel, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “You’re pathetic.”  
“You love it though.”  
“Shut up.”  
Castiel smiled back at him, eyes widening when he saw Dean bearing down on him, rolling him over onto his stomach with a laugh. “Ack, what’re you doing―?”  
Dean chuckled and pushed him onto his front, one leg slung between Castiel’s. His thigh pressed down, and it was a second before Castiel squeaked.  
Dean removed his thigh, lying beside Castiel so he was pressed all along his left side, kissing his neck gently. A hand pushed a soft pressure down his lower back, a finger slipping between his buttocks and touching ever so gently.  
“This still sore?” Dean asked, words against Castiel’s shoulder. He pressed his fingers down, right up on Castiel’s hole.  
“YES!” Castiel screamed, mouth falling wide in surprise. He laughed and dropped his head, nudging Dean back as he rolled his head on his shoulder. Dean was humming a laugh, and it rumbled over Castiel.  
Dean withdrew his head and shuffled down, pulling Castiel’s legs apart. Castiel let him, leaning up on his elbows and getting comfortable. “What are you doing?”  
“I want to look,” Dean said, hands massaging fully over Castiel’s buttocks.  
“At what?”  
“At where I fucked you.”  
Castiel felt his asscheeks pulled apart gently, at the tiny press of a finger as Dean examined him. Dean’s voice drifted up, suddenly aroused, breathy, “Ohh, look what I’ve done to you...”  
“What does it look like?”  
Dean leaned his head low, hair tickling on Castiel’s back. Dean’s tongue licked a line up his spine, then the sensation was removed as he sat up behind him, looking down between Castiel’s legs. “The skin’s kinda darker down here anyway, but your hole...” Dean was biting his lip as he sighed out a tiny moan. “It’s all red, it just looks like... God, it looks like you’ve been fucked. Like you’ve had a cock inside you, rubbing in you.”  
“Is it sore?”  
“A bit swollen, I guess.” Dean was silent for a second, and the next thing Castiel knew, the bristles of Dean’s jaw were rubbing at his ass, lips against his hole. Dean’s words came out against Castiel’s sensitive skin, lips rubbing him: “I fucked you in the butt, Cas. God, that’s just so messed up.”  
Castiel moaned, slipping off his elbows and stretching his arms out in front of him, fingers spreading in the grass. “Lick me. Lick me there.”  
Dean licked without hesitation, hot and wet and shivery right between Castiel’s legs. Castiel shuddered, a tremble falling all the way down his spine. He felt cold, then hot, then nothing but tingles, all over - Dean was lapping at him, kissing. Hands on Castiel’s ass, spreading him apart.  
“Oh, yes, right there,” Castiel sighed, toes curling as Dean mouthed at him, sucking ever so gently.  
“Think you could get off like this? Just with this?” Dean asked, mouth raised a couple of inches to direct the question at Castiel.  
Castiel swallowed. “Get off?”  
“Come.”  
Castiel nodded, cheek burning on the blanket. “Yes. Yes. Just from that.”  
Dean put his head back down, smiling as he licked again. His tongue explored the tops of Castiel’s thighs, pressing into his perineum. He sucked his balls into his mouth and Castiel whined, gasping desperately. He curled the blanket up in his hand, trying to find something to squeeze. He could feel himself, hard against his hip, unable to move at all under his own weight.  
“Fuck me... with your tongue. Dean, put your tongue inside me.”  
Dean gasped against Castiel’s leg, as if only just realising he could do that, and loving the idea. Straight away he began to try, forcing his tongue, thick and stiff, inside Castiel. He never managed to breach the first muscle, only just prodding and poking at the surface.  
“You gotta relax, Cas,” Dean breathed on him, and Castiel read the words more from Dean’s lips on his skin rather than hearing his whisper.  
“I’m trying, it’s... too exciting,” Castiel replied, bucking down into the ground. “And I feel very sore, as well.”  
“The licking’s just making it worse, then,” Dean grinned, wriggling a finger forward. It brushed on Castiel’s pucker and attempted to push inside, and Castiel whimpered, gritting his teeth as he tried not to tense around Dean’s finger. It was too dry, though - with only a thought, Dean’s finger slicked by magic, and he felt it slide inside, wet and slippery.  
“Maybe - just your fingers,” Castiel suggested. “Find the thing you found earlier.”  
“The thing that made you half-drown yourself with screaming?”  
“Yes, that thing.”  
Dean slid the rest of his finger inside, smoothing at the edge of the band of muscle. “How deep was it?”  
Castiel groaned, pushing back on Dean a little, rocking the finger into a rhythm. “Quite close inside, you’ll find it, just―”  
Dean put his tongue back, against his finger, against Castiel’s hole. Castiel thumped the ground with a fist, unable to breathe properly any more. He bit the blanket, clamping it between his teeth as he moaned. His eyes rolled back, thighs trembling violently.  
“Wow,” Dean whispered, licking his lips and swallowing, “you really like this, huh?”  
“Rmm―” Castiel tried, then dropped the blanket and hissed, “yes, yes, please don’t stop, please―”  
Pulling his finger out, Dean began to kiss and lick at Castiel like he would his lips. His nose dragged over the base of Castiel’s spine, saliva dribbling between Castiel’s legs.  
“What―” Castiel began, before breaking off to groan deeply, toes dragging so deeply in the grass that he felt the earth against them. “What do I taste like?”  
Dean moaned, the vibration sending another spike of pleasure up Castiel’s spine. “Like the water, and like your skin always tastes. And... like whatever you mojo’d up, that slippy stuff when we fucked. It kinda tastes like...” Dean lapped at it, once, and Castiel grunted. “I dunno, it’s not bad,” he said, lapsing into a sudden fit of kissing, mouth open over Castiel’s opening as he dragged long licks down between Castiel’s buttocks.  
“And you taste like ass,” he grinned, huffing cooler air on Castiel’s hot, wet skin. “But like, really clean ass.”  
“I - I cleaned, b-before - w-we...” Castiel couldn’t continue, his sentence ending in a screech of pleasure. “Dean, more, more!”  
Dean slipped his finger back inside, then another, straight away. Castiel bucked backward, dragging the blanket as his cock straightened up, trailing a wet line of pre-come over his skin.  
“There!” Castiel shouted suddenly, freezing. “Right there, press down!”  
Dean paused his fingers’ movement, trying to trace what he’d been touching. He found something and Castiel groaned again, hyperventilating. “Stroke it, stroke it―”  
Dean ran his fingers over it, and hard. Castiel screamed, unable to move a single muscle outside of curling his feet so deeply into the grass that he buried his toes in the earth. Fingers of one hand tensed like clamps around the blanket, the other hand tore grass out of the ground in one sudden jerk.  
Castiel gasped, long and rattling, then fell apart as he spilled himself on the picnic blanket, completely relaxed.  
“Whoa,” Dean said, very gently withdrawing his fingers. He smoothed a thumb over Castiel’s extremely sore ass, then closed his legs for him, setting them next to each other. He came to lie up next to Castiel, on his side, peering at him.  
Castiel couldn’t even open his eyes to look back at him, breathing heavily.  
“That was... really intense,” Dean observed, rumbly voice close to Castiel. Castiel heard the slapping of skin, knowing Dean was paying himself some attention now. Castiel would have done it for him, but he was totally spent.  
“What... w-was there, what’d you find?” he managed, shivering slightly.  
“Like, a little bump. Just inside, half a finger in. I pressed that and you were... well. Jizzed the fuck out.”  
Castiel sighed a tiny, exhausted smile. “It was v-very enjoyable.”  
Dean gulped, laying his head down on the blanket. “Hey, Cas?”  
“Hm?”  
“Later, could you show me how to... clean, and stuff? I want to, uh...”  
“You want to find that inside yourself?”  
Dean nodded, Castiel heard it even if he didn’t open his eyes to look. Castiel gave a reply nod, only a tiny incline.  
“Can I come on you?” Dean asked, quietly.  
“Huh?”  
“I’m gonna jizz in a second, I wanna...”  
“Of course,” Castiel smiled. He waited and listened for Dean’s faster, slipping hand, the increase of quiet grunts as Dean reached his peak. Castiel didn’t open his eyes, but felt the weight of Dean as he climbed on top of his back, straddling him.  
Dean leaned over him, one hand on his shoulder. His grunts became breathy sighs, and then Castiel felt the heat pouring over his back, droplets of gooey liquid pulsing out over his skin. Only a second passed before Dean spread a hand through it, drawing it out. Dean moaned, rocking his hips down Castiel’s lower back, ass pulling the skin.  
Then Dean lay on Castiel again, this time rising up over his head. He pressed a kiss to Castiel’s hair, snuffling. Castiel groaned, blissed out.  
Dean rolled off him and lay by his side once more, chuckling under his breath. “That shouldn’t be so friggin’ hot, man.”  
Castiel purred, eyes finally unstuck enough to open. He looked over at Dean, who turned his head to look back, grinning and satisfied.  
“Every time I am with you, in these moments... I always wish they would last.”  
“Forever, yeah. Me too. Best moments, man.” Dean leaned across to kiss Castiel, and Castiel lifted his head to catch him with his whole mouth in an exploratory kiss, tongue probing and tasting Dean’s face.  
“You taste like the place between my legs,” Castiel determined. “That should not be hot, either.”  
Dean bumped his eyebrows and lay back, head lolling on the blanket. “Yeah, well, believe me, when you’re with a girl? Not hot at all.”  
“But you like girls?”  
Dean met his eye again. “Girls don’t taste like you taste, Cas.”  
“Was there ever a girl that tasted better?” Castiel asked, smirking.  
Dean looked between Castiel’s mouth and his eyes, then shook his head. “You taste like Heaven on Earth.” Castiel found himself blushing. Dean saw it and smiled, sighing, “Seriously. You smell like a friggin’ rainbow. And your jizz doesn’t taste even vaguely like mine.”  
“Fallen angel jizz?”  
Dean’s smile widened as he nodded. “You’re human, but you’re magic. Magic jizz.”  
Castiel laughed out loud, raising his head so he could breathe. “You’re tired again, aren’t you?”  
Dean hummed a note and smiled up at the bright sky above, golden sun and swaying green leaves. “I could do with another nap, yeah.”  
“We have to get back,” Castiel said sadly. “I know it would be sensible to leave, but I have this... a very strange feeling. I cannot explain it. We should be in the city on Sunday.”  
“Should be?” Dean probably heard something in Castiel’s tone, and turned to look questioningly at him. “Why ‘should be’?”  
Castiel sighed, pushing up and turning over, drying semen pulling and sliding on the skin of his back. Dean sat up beside him, shuffling so their thighs were pressed together, hair tingling.  
“I feel...” Castiel began, “like something important might happen. No - that’s not it.” He tested the feeling in his mind. “That we should not be leaving yet.”  
“Good feeling or bad feeling?”  
“Neither. Just a feeling.”  
Dean curved his lower lip. “Weird.”  
“Not really.” Castiel sighed. “It feels perhaps like an angel thing.”  
Dean said nothing more. He nodded after a minute or so, then stood up. “Come on, wash off, then we’ll get back.”  
“Already?”  
Dean shrugged. “You wanted to go screw in the bell tower, right?”  
Castiel stood up and smiled at Dean. “We have had a lot of sex today.”  
“Once more can’t hurt, right?” Dean grinned. He slapped Castiel on the arm and nodded towards the pool. “Come on, I’ll scrub you down.”  
~  
“AGH!”  
Dean looked up from where he was gathering the picnic basket. “What’s up?”  
Castiel panted and held himself up off Lucifer’s back, standing in the stirrups. “I’m still - still very sore.”  
Dean laughed. “Oh man, you need a cushion? Here,” he said, holding out the folded picnic blanket and setting it underneath Castiel’s rear as he sat down again.  
“Thank you.”  
“Welcome, buddy,” Dean muttered, patting Castiel’s damp trouser leg. He mounted his own horse, setting the basket in his lap.  
Castiel looked over at him, and realised what Dean suddenly looked so upset about. “We may not come back here,” he said, and Dean nodded.  
“I’m gonna miss it, you know? It’s basically been my only sanctuary, for my entire life. Well, since I was a teenager.”  
Castiel clopped Lucifer over to him, and together they stood and looked out over Dean’s paradise dominion.  
The waterfall burbled, as splashy as ever; the pool glistened in the late afternoon sun as always; the giant rock loomed, the birds called, and the frogs chirped. The grass was a little trampled, and the dock was quiet and still. Other than that, there was no sign anyone had ever been here. In a few years’ time, this place would be as taken by Mother Nature as anywhere else in the world, untouched by man.  
“I’m glad you brought me here, Dean,” Castiel told him. “I can never thank you enough.”  
Dean smiled at him. “A year’s worth of blowjobs ought’a do it.”  
Castiel grinned. “I think it would be worth more than that. A lifetime of waking up next to you.”  
Dean met his eye again, humour abated. “If I had to thank this place for anything, Cas? I don’t think it’d be the years I spent alone here. Just the days I spent here with you.”  
Castiel nodded, having no words, but appreciating the sentiment.  
“Come on,” Dean said, turning his horse. “If I don’t leave now I never will.”  
Castiel left first, with one look back, letting Dean have a moment to himself. He only took ten seconds before he joined Castiel, not a line of regret on his face.  
“You’re not upset?”  
Dean shrugged. “Nah. I get to go other places, do the stuff I always wanted to do. And I’ll be with you this time. Only thing I really care about any more.”  
Castiel fell back, and let Dean trot ahead. He didn’t want him to see how very much his words had affected him.  
“Come on!” Dean shouted, nudging Chevy to a gallop. “Race you!”  
Castiel only tried to nudge Lucifer into a trot before he tugged hard on the reins with a squawk.  
“Augh,” he grunted, wincing violently. His legs were tense, trying to hold his lower half over his horse without touching down. “Dean, wait,” he croaked.  
Dean was long gone.  
Grunting under his breath, Castiel edged Lucifer forward, gritting his teeth as the horse swayed heavily under him.  
Castiel took the path haltingly, expression twitching as pain shot up in pulses as he rode.  
Hoofsteps approached - Chevy; Dean had realised that Castiel was not with him.  
“What’s the hold up? You okay?”  
“My rear...” Castiel looked up, one half of his face tense as his steed matched the slow pace of Chevy as she joined him, “...is very sore indeed.”  
Dean quirked a grin, which quickly fell into an apologetic shrug of his mouth. “Go slow?”  
Castiel nodded, toes curled into Lucifer's stirrups. “Very slow.”  
~x~  
“Lalalalalalalala―”  
“SAM, SHUT UP.”  
Sam lifted his head and removed his hands from his ears. “Is it over?”  
Castiel sighed witheringly, glaring off into the darkness. “Yes, I have finished telling you about the sex. I finished some time ago.”  
“Yeah, well,” Sam said. “I always think you’re done, you lull me into a false sense of security, then then suddenly, BAM! Dean’s tongue’s on your ass and―” he slapped his hands over his face, scrubbing his palms over himself. “Guh, I really wish I hadn’t heard any of that.”  
“You ‘n me both, kid,” Bobby grunted, on Sam’s right. “At least you ain’t holdin’ the reins, you can stick your fingers in your ears.”  
Gabriel snorted from below, ears flicking. “Or you could lose the reins completely, it’s not like we don’t know where we’re going.”  
Sam’s interest piqued. “Where _are_ we going? How’d you know where Dean is?”  
Castiel leaned forward. “Do you not hear the howling, Sam?”  
Sam listened, and yes, in the far distance, he heard the deep howl of a crying wolf. “That’s Dean?”  
“It is.”  
“Plus,” Gabriel added, “I can smell that shiny black horse of his.”  
Sam was impressed. “Neat.”  
Bobby sighed gruffly. “Eh, I’d say we got about another hour or so to go, maybe two. If we had a faster goddamn cart, we’d get there faster.”  
“Tell that to your ass,” Gabriel neighed. “And by ass I mean Crowley, but your flabby behind could use a talkin’ to as well, I dare say.”  
Bobby found another good use for the reins: Gabriel-punishment.  
Castiel’s fingers were tapping on his knee. “If you don’t mind, I have a lot of story to get through.”  
“Cas?”  
“Yes, Sam?”  
“I will _pay_ you to stop telling us about the sex.”  
Castiel rolled his eyes to the sky and ignored him.  
~x~  
“Are you going to put your ring on when we get back?”  
Dean looked down at his pocket and patted the lump inside it, then replied, “No-one’ll really notice if I don’t, right?”  
Castiel shrugged a shoulder, letting Dean take the lead as they approached the hole in the wall. Chevy trotted forward, Lucifer right on her tail.  
“Wait,” Castiel blurted. “Do you feel that?”  
Dean looked between the wall and Castiel, then back again. “Feel what?”  
“A sense of... impending doom.”  
Dean laughed, then caught Castiel’s eye and sobered. “No, I feel sunshine, and sexed-out fuzziness, and really excited for leaving. And kinda hungry, actually.”  
Castiel hesitated, leaning and taking Dean’s arm, stopping him before he went through the gap. “I feel it as an instinct.”  
Dean looked at him. “You’re really serious, huh?”  
Castiel nodded.  
Dean took in a breath. “So... is this about Sunday, about leaving? Or right now? Should I get Gabriel and get him to pack up our stuff while you wait?”  
Castiel paused then shook his head. “No, I’m sure it’s nothing.”  
“Don’t do that to instinct, Cas. It’s always something. Especially for an angel.”  
Castiel blinked a few times, then shook his head. “It is nothing.” He pressed past, and climbed back over the wall, inside the city once more.  
Dean followed, their horses lining up as they began to head for the castle. “You sure?”  
“No. But... I don’t feel unsafe, as of yet. Simply that something is... unsettled.”  
“In what way?”  
Castiel thought hard. “Magically. Meg has used my Grace for something. Something powerful.”  
“Oh... crap. You don’t think―”  
Castiel looked up sharply. “Think what?”  
“She could be trying to find you? Using magic?”  
Castiel looked around them, at the people who started to appear as they got closer to the central, busier part of the city. “It is possible. But I don’t think that’s what it is.”  
Dean thought for a while, in silence. “Hey,” he began, once the stable was in sight. “You know the power-of-love thing.”  
“Yes?”  
“If she was trying to find you, and you needed to hide, you could use the power-of-love magic thing to stop her seeing you.”  
Castiel looked over at Dean, who was looking back hopefully. “I suppose, theoretically.”  
“So we could have loads of sex. And she wouldn’t find you.”  
Castiel laughed, eyes crinkling as he leaned forward on his horse. The blanket shifted under him, and he winced. “That may work, although I am fully sure there is only one way to test that.”  
“Bell tower?”  
Castiel inclined his head. “Bell tower.”  
~  
They only took a few minutes to return their horses to the stables; Gabriel and Bailey had apparently taken Colton away from his stable-managing duties for too long, and he was grumbling as he furiously swept the central aisle.  
Castiel smiled at him, then went to pat Bailey, only to find she was still out of her stall.  
“That angel fella took her out for a run,” Colton told him, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Glad she got someone who can actually look after her, I never had the time.”  
“She is well-loved, I can see that,” Castiel said to him, and Colton smiled, pleased.  
“Wish she weren’t with so little life,” the grey-haired man said, turning back to his sweeping. “She’s a beautiful creature.”  
Castiel watched the man’s back, feeling his moroseness, then moved on, searching for Dean. He found him out in the sun, waiting for him.  
Without a word, Dean grinned at Castiel and broke into a run, bolting straight for the church. Castiel fell behind as he was fully aware that he had to hide from any of the monks, as they were all far too acquainted with the Priestess. Besides, his ass hurt too much to run. Dean stopped running to find him looking at him while wearing a slight pout. From then on, Dean walked ahead, waving Castiel ahead when the coast was clear.  
They made it to the bottom of the spiral staircase with no interruptions, and Castiel hobbled up, smiling. Dean snapped a playful hand at his ankle as they made their way upward.  
Castiel clambered into the square shelter of the bell tower’s roof, walking to the right of the giant brass bell. Dean reached the top and leaned over his knees, out of breath. This place was small, only a few feet across each way. Castiel smiled, reminiscing over the time Dean had climbed over the side and they’d walked along the roof together.  
Dean straightened up with a sigh, then laughed. He had barely a second to gather his thoughts before Castiel was on him, body pressed up against him. Castiel knocked forwards and Dean leant on the side of the tower, the white stone wall pressed into his middle back.  
“How’d you wanna do it?” Dean breathed, hands sliding down Castiel’s back to cup his ass, squeezing. “People can see us, we can’t be too obvious.”  
“I find that is part of the fun,” Castiel said back, tilting his head. “Things that are obvious to us may not be obvious to people far below. If they saw me kissing you―” Castiel kissed him, rolling an open mouth against him, “―they might assume either you or I are a woman.  
“If they saw me doing this―” he ground against Dean by his hips, a thigh slid between Dean’s legs and pushing into him, “―they might assume we are just standing quite close together, or that I have a jumpy leg.”  
Castiel turned his head and drew his eyes down Dean’s form, fingertips touching the hem of Dean’s green shirt. “They would not see if I did this.” He slid a flat hand under his top, turning it around on his stomach then sending it down under Dean’s waistband, the other hand adeptly undoing Dean’s belt with a fast movement.  
Dean sighed as Castiel’s hand wrapped around him. Castiel squeezed, and Dean grunted.  
“If I did this―” Castiel suddenly dropped to his knees and pulled Dean free of his breeches, licked his cockhead with a flat-tongued swipe, then stood back up, “―clearly, I dropped something, and I had to pick it up.” He smirked at Dean, tugging his hand. Dean breathed deeply, enjoying this kind of attention.  
Castiel leaned in close, cheek to Dean’s cheek, eyes on the sun-bathed courtyards below, dust rising from them as people passed on horses. “Nobody will know that I have my hand on your cock.”  
Dean pulled Castiel closer, plumping in his fist. Castiel looked down to watch his hand stroke, watching Dean’s flesh slide in his grip. It was barely slick, his skin dragging.  
“Do you wanna, um, do me, while I do the same to you?” Dean licked his lips and elaborated. “Look out and enjoy the view, and jerk each other off.”  
Castiel smirked, then dropped his hand and undid his trousers, setting his half-hard cock in Dean’s palm. “Yes, that sounds delightful.”  
Dean smiled and huffed out a breath through his nose, then turned to lean on the wall of the bell tower. Castiel stood on his left, surreptitiously leaning on his left elbow while his right hand curled around Dean. Dean crossed his arm over Castiel’s, left hand working Castiel to full stiffness.  
“Nice view,” Dean said.  
“It is lovely, isn’t it,” Castiel agreed. “Very sunny.”  
“I like how there’s so many people.”  
“Yes.” Castiel swallowed, watching a monk in a conversation with Bobby Singer. “Bobby is not usually awake in the daytime,” he said aloud.  
“Oh God,” Dean said suddenly, panting. He let out a slow breath with a tiny moan. He paused for a short while, then added, “Also, Cas, don’t - don’t talk about Bobby while your hand’s on my cock, okay?”  
“Sorry.”  
Dean tipped his head back and rocked his hips gently, Castiel feeling his own hand brush on the wall in front of them as he twisted it over Dean’s crown. Dean’s hand on him was moving faster than his own, as he’d become a little slicker than Dean. Dean used movement to his advantage, while Castiel, as he’d always preferred to do, used all manner of touch, not just friction, to bring pleasure. He stopped and started his rhythm, pausing to pet at Dean’s testicles, fingering between his legs, running fingernails through his pubic hair.  
Dean was breathing very heavily, trying to keep his mouth shut before he moaned out loud. Castiel kept his eyes on Bobby Singer, enjoying the thrill of a mystery along with his pleasure. Bobby left the monk, and strode too far across the courtyard so Castiel could no longer see him. He let it go as something he had no need to pry into, and concentrated on squeezing Dean at exactly the right angle that made him gasp.  
“Cas - Cas, do the thing, do the thing―”  
“What thing?”  
“That thing you do to the bottom, with your fingertips...”  
Castiel frowned, he wasn’t quite sure what Dean meant. “Show me with your hand?”  
Dean licked his lips and looked down to Castiel’s member, his shifting hand slowing so Dean could think. Dean frowned, then turned his hand and squeezed his fingertips along Castiel’s raphe, making Castiel’s knees so weak he almost hit his chin on the bell tower wall. He gasped with his mouth open, shaking back to standing and letting Dean take him in hand again.  
Castiel nodded, knowing what Dean meant now. Dean grinned and swung himself back into Castiel’s hand, both of them hearing the slap as his palm hit heavy flesh. Castiel repeated the action on Dean’s raphe and Dean barked out a spasm of pleasure, a wash of pre-come running over Castiel’s finger. He slid it over the rest of Dean’s length and used it to help his hand slip along it.  
“Mm,” Dean muttered, watching his cock vanish and reappear in Castiel’s fist. He blinked a few times in rapid succession, then looked around him, up and down and at everything in the bell tower.  
“What are you looking for?” Castiel asked.  
Dean licked his lips. “Uh, you know we’re on a church?”  
“The fact had not escaped my notice.”  
“Well,” Dean sighed, glancing around again, “I feel kinda blasphemous right about now.”  
“What do you want to do?”  
Dean caught his eyes with a wicked smirk. “Guess.”  
Castiel squinted. “You want to ejaculate on the church?”  
Dean grinned widely, head hung in buried shame. “Not as a pass against God or anything, just against their stupid rules about dudes not being allowed to screw other dudes.”  
Castiel joined his search for a moment, only taking one look around before knowing exactly where Dean would enjoy releasing. “Underneath the bell,” he said, nodding to Dean. “Where it goes down into the church, with the ropes.”  
Dean let go of Castiel’s cock for a few seconds to lean over, peering into the square hole under the giant bell. Castiel knew it went all the way to the bottom of the church, to the terracotta tiles where the monks stood to ring the bell at the end of service.  
“You’re as filthy-minded as I am, you know that, Cas?” Dean said with a grin, as he came back to take Castiel in hand again, pulling a sigh of relief out of him.  
“I do know that. And I have actually ejaculated in there before.”  
Dean looked at him with a mask of surprise, eyes wide and a open-mouthed grin curling up his face. “Seriously?”  
“I had only just learned to masturbate. I was simply enjoying the fact that I could practise the act any time I was alone. I just happened to be standing very close to it at the time.”  
Dean laughed and pulled Castiel right up against him by his waist, hand on his bare ass and massaging him as they rubbed their dicks together, heated bars of flesh pressed into both their hips. “If anyone saw us doing this, what would they think?”  
“Damned if I know,” Bobby Singer said. “But it might be along the lines of ‘you are going to Hell faster than I take my next breath’.”  
Dean caught sight of Bobby, with a look on his face like a deer too scared to move as it hears the click of a loaded crossbow. Castiel panted, unwilling to move himself from Dean's side. Their cocks were hidden by their bodies, but their naked asses were still bared for Bobby to see.  
“Oh... oh God,” Castiel sighed, shivering. “Bobby, please forgive us―” He tried very hard to grab for his trousers, but in doing so broke from Dean’s arms and set their cocks springing free, their erections extremely visible.  
Bobby looked thunderous as he turned his head away and glared at the sky. “Ain’t _my_ forgiveness you need, kid.”  
Dean scrambled to do up his trousers, forcing his still-hard cock downward, trying to get it to stay still as he did up his buttons. Castiel helped him, both panting nervously as Castiel then turned to his own trousers which had fallen to his knees.  
“Bobby - we never meant you to see this―”  
“Maybe it’s a stupid question, _Castiel_ \- I assume that’s who you are, given I never saw your god-damned face before today - but why in Hell’s name are you doing _this_ \- I don’t even have a word for it―”  
Dean panted, eyes darting to Castiel as he finally buttoned his trousers. “It’s nothing, Bobby,” Dean tried, pointlessly. “We just―”  
“It ain’t _nothin’_ , boy. You gotta be a complete idjit to not realise what you’re doin’ is first rate sacrilege!”  
“I thought you weren’t a man o’ God, Bobby,” Dean said, tone a little harsher. He gulped, and Castiel could see he was embarrassed, and deeply. He tried to hide it with anger, but there was no real anger in him. Only fear.  
“I ain’t no more a man o’ God than you are a sinner, Dean,” Bobby replied, face looking mighty pissed off, but his words were delivered with kind meaning.  
He meant that he didn’t think Dean and Castiel were doing anything wrong. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief and set his hand on Dean’s arm, to stop him before he began to shout at Bobby. “He doesn’t think we’re sinning, Dean.”  
“Hell, that wasn’t what I said,” Bobby spat, glaring at Castiel. But then he turned back to Dean and his hard gaze softened. “But I don’t think you’re doin’ wrong by anyone, either.” Bobby took a deep breath, staring down Dean’s uneasy expression. “What’s _wrong_ is when you show yourselves up in goddamn _public_. You didn’t think someone would _see_ you here?”  
Castiel said quickly, “We find the exposure exciting―”  
“Cas, shut up!” Dean said with his eyes wide. Castiel lowered his head, blinking.  
Bobby grumbled, volume down and voice gruff, “If you’re gonna do these weird-ass pansy things, at least do them where no-one can ever hear about it, _behind closed doors_.”  
Castiel swallowed hard, like he understood.  
Dean huffed, folding his arms. He took a few breaths in, gearing himself up to say, “Thanks for not rattin’ us out, Bobby.” In the end it came out like a quiet bark, but Bobby heard it and nodded gently.  
“Anyway,” Bobby said, taking a deep breath, “what I came up here to say, was―” he looked to Castiel, his gaze intense enough that Castiel glanced to Dean for reassurance, “―the Priestess is lookin’ for you. And big.”  
“What do you mean, big?” Castiel asked, eyes darting between each of Bobby’s.  
“I mean she’s got every damn man of the Guard out lookin’ for hide or hair o’ you. If you’re seen she’s gonna be at your throat. From what I heard from Missouri, that might even mean literally.”  
Castiel dropped his gaze as he realised Bobby knew how badly Meg hurt him. Really, they had no secrets. People knew about his and Dean’s relationship, people knew they were leaving. Even their most private moments were in someone else’s mind. Angels with telepathic powers, psychics, Death. Everyone knew everything.  
Dean put a warm hand on Castiel’s back, stroking through his shirt. “You’re gonna be safe with me, Cas. Hide out in my room until we leave.”  
“Leave?” Bobby squinted at the two of them.  
Castiel nodded once, looking up to Bobby. “Dean and I are going to run away together.”  
Dean had no qualm in telling Bobby, Castiel could see that. Dean stepped forward and shrugged, then unclenched his hands from his side. “Guess I should’a told you earlier, but... yeah, me n’ Cas... we’re taking off.”  
Bobby’s shoulders slumped, all anger subsided. Castiel felt the man become overtaken by the oncoming loss of Dean in his life, and his own stomach clenched in response. “When?”  
“Sunday,” Castiel said, stepping up to Dean and putting his arm around his lower back. Dean slid his own arm over Castiel’s shoulder and pulled him closer to his side.  
Bobby watched their closeness and was definitely uncomfortable, but did nothing about it. “You ever comin’ back?”  
Dean lowered his eyes then locked them back on Bobby. “Pretty sure this is goodbye. At least for a few years.”  
“ _Years?!_ ”  
Dean tensed under Castiel’s arm. “Cas ain’t safe here, Bobby, I think you already know that. And I...” Dean looked to Castiel, sighing, “I got nothing left here.”  
Bobby pulled his shoulders back, affronted. “Whadd’ya - there’s your Captain position, your friends - a good goddamn _wage_ , y’idjit. How’re you gonna survive without what you got now? And hell, there’s me, but I ain’t deluded enough to think you’d be staying here for an old man.”  
Dean sighed and leaned into Castiel, automatically kissing his jaw, eyes tightly closed. “I don’t know, Bobby. But I’m not staying here and letting Cas get hurt.”  
“He’s a friggin’ _angel_ , you―”  
“I am a fallen angel.” Castiel moved out from under Dean’s arm and stepped forward, only a few paces from Bobby now. “I may not be weak, but against Meg, I have next to no power at all to defend myself. There are always possibilities of me regaining my power if I stayed, but doing so would endanger everyone I care about. Dean is... very selfless, in giving up his position to help me. I could refuse, but I feel―”  
“Cas,” Dean said suddenly. “It’s not selfless of me. At all. It’s the most unreasonable and friggin’ ridiculously selfish thing I can think of.” Castiel tried to interrupt but Dean held up a hand to stop him. “Without me this city is gonna...” Dean hung his head. “Raphael’s gonna be Captain. You know what he’s like. Meg won’t care what he does, she doesn’t care about anything that goes on here. I’m leaving with you because I want to. I wanna have sex with you, and I wanna kiss you, and I wanna _be_ with you. And yeah, God, I want you to be safe. But that’s about the only selfless part of this. People are gonna get hurt if I leave.”  
Castiel watched Dean speak, sadness descending on him as Dean’s words rang true. “This was the feeling,” he realised, telling Dean quietly. “The feeling I had, that we had to be here on Sunday. We cannot leave because of this. We have to stay. For the good of the many.”  
Dean took in a shaky breath, fists clenched. “Don’t do this to me, Cas―”  
“I am not leaving this city, Dean. I will not let Raphael be Captain, not after everything you worked for.”  
Dean screwed his eyes up and put a hand to his head, shaking it. “God, I can’t - I’m a terrible Captain, I’ve done maybe three good practices since the start. The only thing it’s doing is keeping Raphael off the streets and from terrorising people.”  
“Then that is what you will continue to do.”  
Bobby was watching them pass words back and forth, saying nothing. Castiel met his eyes for a moment, then turned back to Dean, saying, “I know that this is not what either of us wants. But the things Meg would do to me... There are many people who would suffer instead of me. People who would die, who she has no reason to let live.”  
“All right, enough, Cas,” Dean said, quietly. “I get it. We’re fucking staying.” He looked Castiel in the eye, something cold in his gaze. Then he brushed past Bobby and went back down the staircase, into the sun. Bobby and Castiel watched him go, then turned to each other.  
Bobby sighed. “Don’t listen to him, he’s an idjit. By this evening he’ll be crawlin’ back to you and all mopey that you were the better man than he was.”  
Castiel hugged his elbows, stomach twisting unpleasantly. “In staying... I fear for my life, Bobby.” It was a simple feeling. He couldn’t die, but there were things that could come close enough. Losing Dean would be worse than death. Living without him, being forced to live. To live in pain, at the mercy of Meg Masters.  
Bobby stepped forward, big hand closing over Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m gonna swear an oath, all right? On holy ground, as we’re on now. God as my witness, and all o’ that. I swear to protect you. At whatever cost. You’re going to be safe.”  
Castiel looked into his eyes and burst into tears. Bobby pulled him close and patted him on the back, uncomfortable, but not the kind of man to pull away.  
~x~  
“That’s sweet of you to say, Cas,” Bobby grumbled. “But please stop talkin’.”  
Castiel smiled, Sam hearing a tiny hum. “I still appreciate your oath. I always will, and I owe you my life so many times over.”  
Bobby inclined his head, sighing. “All right, all right. Come on, you still got a heap o’ stuff to get to before the good part.”  
“It’s all the good part,” Castiel disagreed.  
Sam coughed a laugh. “That’s because it’s all sex, all the way through.”  
Castiel shrugged, shoulders bumping Sam’s. “The next part is not sex. Although there is sex in it...”  
“You’re gonna skip that bit, else I go back on my damn oath, and not regret it a lick,” Bobby said, sternly.  
“I refuse,” Castiel said. “The story makes little sense without it.”  
Sam heaved a heavy sigh. “One day I’m gonna get you back for this. Show you naked girls or something.”  
Castiel blinked at him. “Where would you get naked girls?”  
Sam gawped, barely able to see Castiel’s face in the dark, but still able to make out the curious expression on his face. “In theory.”  
“I see.”  
Sam rolled his eyes with a loud sigh. “Just get on with it, I need something to distract me from the fact that my feet are freezing.”  
“Well,” Castiel said. “I did not really see anyone for the rest of that day. I stayed in the confession booth until Bobby told me Gabriel told him that Meg was back in her rooms, then I went to Dean’s room.”  
“I thought he was pissed at you.”  
Castiel smirked. “He wasn’t. He was just upset, but not at me. Like Bobby said, he knew I’d been the better man. He saw me and said nothing, just sat on his bed. But then I sat beside him, and...” Castiel chuckled. “We made lo―”  
“SKIP IT.”  
Castiel growled. “We made lov―”  
“SKIP.”  
“We were naked and we rubbed―”  
“NO.”  
“―our naked bodies together―”  
“SHUT UP CAS, OH MY GOD.”  
“―and we licked each other’s mouths―”  
“Castiel, I swear to God, if you do not stop this right now, I am MAKING YOU WALK.”  
Castiel took a breath and stopped talking. Gabriel giggled.  
“Now, Cas,” Sam said calmly, also feeling Bobby trying to subdue himself on his right, “If it’s not too much trouble, tell us the next part where you are _not_ screwing.”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes and sighed gruffly. “I would have to skip the rest of that entire day. We christened Dean’s room in much the same way as we did with my own. We were so tired, though, we were asleep after only doing it once. And I was exceedingly sore by the end, but not in the same place as before―”  
“Cas.”  
Sam heard the click as Castiel swallowed. The fallen angel huffed, then continued, “The human underarm proves to be a very versatile―”  
Sam sobbed and Gabriel neighed a sharp laugh that made the cart rock. Castiel was smirking, Sam knew he was. He was doing it on purpose, he was enjoying their reaction. Castiel was a nasty, nasty tease.  
“I will move on,” Castiel acceded. “But only because I actually want to tell you about the next part, it was very interesting.”  
Sam wanted to ask how anything could _possibly_ more interesting than man-on-man sex, but figured that would encourage him, so stayed silent and waited for Castiel to speak.  
~x~  
Castiel did not have a pleasant awakening. It may have started nicely, what with the after-sex glow lingering from last night; the blankets were warm, Dean was warm, and everything smelt like sex. But a knock on the door changed all of that.  
“C’me in,” Dean groaned into his pillow.  
The knock came again, and Dean growled, realising whoever it was hadn’t heard him. “Cas, could’ya get that?”  
Castiel slipped out of bed without question, arm scrambling for his long-ago discarded breeches that were hooked over Dean’s candle holder on his bedside. Castiel was not fully awake, and he was not presentable in the slightest sense. He should not even be answering the door, as he was a wanted fugitive, but Dean was probably not thinking clearly, and Castiel certainly wasn’t either, even if he’d deny it if asked.  
Castiel leaned his head on the door as he swung it open, blinking heavily. “Mh?”  
“ _Castiel!_ ” Oh Lord, thank the Heavens I found you―” Cupid put a firm hand on Castiel shoulder, and Castiel flinched. “Oh goodness,” Cupid said, withdrawing his hand as he entered the room and shut the door for Castiel. Castiel fell back against it, sighing tiredly.  
Cupid looked the other fallen angel up and down, seeing the untied breeches slipping down his sides, the hand-shaped bruises on his hips, the semen... in his hair. Castiel reached a hand up to cover it, blushing slightly.  
Then he realised that wasn’t the only place he was stained, and determined that he did not have enough hands to protect himself from Cupid’s discerning eye.  
“Where’s Dean?”  
“Bed,” Castiel said, shuffling past Cupid and flopping down on the mattress, wriggling to wrap his arms around the still-blanketed Dean.  
“Dean, honey, time to get up.” Cupid began to potter around the room, making an awful racket of things being moved and cleaned. The wardrobe door opened and shut, then after a long pause it opened again. “Come on, you have a funeral to go to. You’re going to be late, I thought you were there already.”  
Dean lifted his head, and Castiel opened an eye and then sat up. “Funeral?” they asked at once.  
Cupid stopped and looked at them both. “N-nobody told you? Where’ve you been since yesterday afternoon?”  
Castiel glanced to Dean quickly, then back to Cupid. “Here. Making love. We have done nothing else.”  
Dean shot Castiel a look that said ‘you could’ve toned it down a little, man’, before gulping nervously and sitting up. “Who died?” He was obviously distressed; it was a first-hand unpleasant experience for Castiel to wake up and find out someone you knew was deceased. And not know who it was. His stomach was doing cold flips and his digestive acid seemed to be eating its way up his throat.  
Cupid’s shoulders fell. “Oh, I hate to be the one to tell you,” he sighed, eyebrows drawn out to the side of his forehead. “Andrew Gallagher, the poor dear.”  
“Gallagher?” Dean said, shuffling forward slightly, squinting. “I don’t know anyone―”  
“The young man from the kitchens, I know you know him. Gabriel was telling me all about your expedition to the Priestess’ chambers.”  
“...Andy?” Dean’s throat was tight, he sounded like someone was strangling him. “Andy’s dead?”  
Cupid’s eyes were round and forlorn as he said, “Went out yesterday, some kind of magical accident.”  
It felt like Castiel’s stomach dropped out of his gut, spilling a chill through the warm blankets. His hand clapped over his mouth and he tried to hold in a cry, to no avail. The wail came out as his face contorted into some shape he’d never felt it move into.  
“This... this is my fault,” he bewailed, under his breath. “Oh no, oh no―”  
“Cas―?”  
“Oh no no no...” Castiel buried his face in his hands and felt the dread and panic and intense nausea set in.  
“Cas, how the hell is this your fault?” Dean demanded, kneeling closer, hand on Castiel’s back. Castiel rolled the touch off him, tugging away. “Cas, you were here with me, we both know that. Andy - shit - Andy’s death had nothing to do wit―”  
“ANDY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF ME!” Castiel roared, throwing himself off the bed and grabbing the first thing he found, the candle holder by the bed. He threw it so hard, faster than humanly possible - it smashed into fifty tiny metal shards, exploding over a wall and scattering out over the floor with an angry clatter.  
“Cas―”  
Castiel crouched on the floor, ignoring the ache in his muscles, falling to his knees and covering his head with his hands. “Andy... Meg.... She did this. She did this to him. She gets angry and she - she takes it out on _me_. I wasn’t there, I was gone, I was here, I was at Limn’mere, I was with _you_ , Dean! She had nobody to hurt, she must’ve―” Castiel sobbed heavily as Dean’s hand found his back again, touching him gently.  
“She must’ve found him, and hurt him... He _died_ , Dean!” Castiel lifted his head and cried a long, fierce note at the wall with metal embedded in it, all across the floor in front of it. “When she hurts me, I don’t die, I only hurt for a while, and then Cupid makes me better!”  
Castiel hissed into his hands. Dean didn’t remove his hand, but Castiel could feel he was unsure whether to withdraw or move closer.  
“She hurt somebody mortal, Dean. And they died. This is why - th-this is why we need to stay. I cannot leave this city. I need to go back to her. Any time I spend away... she will hurt someone. She will kill more people, people who are cared about.”  
Castiel closed his eyes, taking in a shaky, ice-cold breath. “Andy had no family. Only his friends, the psychics in the kitchen. And you and I.” Castiel gulped, curling his hands into his face so angrily his felt his nails scratching down his cheeks, much like Meg had done to him. He let it hurt, he deserved it. He deserved the punishments Meg gave him.  
“Cas...”  
“Take your hand off me, Dean. I’m not yours any more. I’m hers, I’m Meg’s. I belong to Meg Masters.”  
Castiel actually felt the pain Dean felt in his heart, and the sorrow that emanated from Cupid. It was the most intense feeling he’d ever gotten from another person without looking right at them. It hurt him as it hurt them, but he did not move, nor change his mind.  
“I’m not letting you do that, Cas. Gabriel won’t either. None of your friends will.”  
“Then more people will die. I am not giving you a choice,” Castiel said, unfolding his legs and standing up. He could not meet Dean’s eye, and stayed staring furiously at the wall ahead. “I am leaving you, it will only endanger you if we stay together. Eventually she will break me, and I will let slip our relationship. And then she would kill you.”  
“Cas, you’re being stupid.”  
Castiel was about to disagree, but felt the absolute, radiating truth of Dean’s words. He did not want to do this, but he knew it was... it was to save _lives_. It was heroic, was it not?  
“Love is a compromise,” Dean whispered, suddenly right behind Castiel, words drifting over his shoulder. “But I am not damning you to an eternity of pain and torture and... rape, Cas. _Rape_. You can’t seriously believe anyone who knows you is going to let this happen. Fuck the greater good. We can take this bitch down, we can find a way to blow it the _fuck_ back in her face.”  
Dean slipped a warm hand around Castiel’s waist, pressing up behind him. He curled into his shoulders, kissing his neck. “You’ve got half the puzzle, right? She’s using your Grace to do fuck-all. You have some power over her, she can’t use your magic against you any more. I got a fair bit of that, too. I got through her bedroom door just by thinking really long and hard about your cock.”  
Castiel barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Dean hummed against him, pulling him closer. “We’re not lacking info, Cas, all right? We got something. We can fix this. You’re not hers, you’re not even close. You’re as far from hers as the sky is to a worm.”  
Dean kissed Castiel’s neck again, breathing him in. His eyelashes brushed Castiel’s skin, and Castiel closed his eyes, emotions completely in turmoil.  
“Now,” Dean said as close to cheerful as he could sound. He squeezed Castiel around the middle and then pulled off, sliding fingers down his arm to take his hand. He tugged him back, and Castiel turned to meet his eyes, and in them, saw something hollow but hopeful. “We’re going to get dressed, cleaned up - Cupid, you can do super-quick mojo cleaning, right? Jizz takes too long to get outta―” Dean caught Cupid’s glare and cleared his throat. “Cleaned up, then go down to Andy’s funeral. And pay our damn respects.”  
Dean looked at Castiel again and dragged in a deep breath, holding it as his chest inflated. He let it all out in one, swallowing. “Come on, Cas.”  
Castiel hesitated, feeling like his emotions had been either locked in a box or drowned completely. There was nothing, no emotion. He wanted nothing, and would probably agree to any suggestion thrown his way. He nodded to Dean and hung his head.  
Dean pulled Castiel into a hug, sticky skin pressed into each other’s. Castiel breathed slowly, feeling numbness gradually filling with the sense of... being needed. Dean needed him. Castiel hugged him back then dropped his arms, lips set in a determined line.  
“I will not leave you. I promised I would never leave you... and... I... I’m sor―”  
Dean kissed him. “I know.”  
Dean turned and pulled Castiel to the wardrobe, each feeling their aches and stickiness lifted from them in turn by a poke in the forehead from Cupid. Cupid shook his head, eyes sunken. “Castiel, you cannot be seen by anybody.”  
“He can wear my clothes,” Dean said, calmly. “Black for a funeral. Here, try this.” He placed one of his black Guard shirts in Castiel’s hand. He always wore these shirts under his armour. This one was fairly raggedy, but Castiel could smell Dean’s scent on it even from here. He also took the trousers Cupid handed him.  
“They might be a bit big,” Dean said, stroking Castiel’s hip. “You’re a skinny bastard, huh?”  
Castiel looked up at him, frowning. “I am not a bastard, I have no parents―”  
Dean chuckled and kissed him, fingertips caressing his jaw. “Shuddup, Cas. Go on, go get dressed.”  
Castiel went to the bed and began to pull clothes on. The shirt was loose, but tighter across the shoulder than it was on Dean. Castiel was not skinny at all, but he gave this appearance only because his muscles were very tightly packed and smooth. His arms were in fact slightly more muscular than Dean’s, which showed far better through the black linen.  
The trousers did not fit well; they were very baggy on him, and Castiel had to tighten the belt about five inches tighter than Dean already had it set.  
Dean slapped his buttocks as he came closer, smirking. “You look good in black, gotta say it. And your ass is―” he leaned back to stare, “―mm-hmm, it’s perky.” He winked at Castiel and pulled a shirt over his own head.  
“I don’t think this is appropriate smalltalk for where we are going,” Castiel said, eyes lowered.  
“I know.” Dean sighed deeply, sullen once more. “Just trying to lighten the mood. I think everyone’s kinda... inside-out miserable.”  
“Yes.” Castiel gulped. “I feel very unwell.”  
Dean shucked his trousers on, eyes still on Castiel. “Sometimes a funeral gets those feelings... out in the open. So you can stomp on them and never think about them again.”  
“Did you have a funeral for your parents?”  
Dean stopped doing up his buttons to talk. “Memorial. They never found everyone’s bodies, and they couldn’t tell who was who. Mostly we just ended up staring at a pile of black crap and crying because one of those bones might be our mom, or our dog, or even something they’d been eating for dinner.” Dean shook his head, eyes closed. “There were a few kids at the castle who lost people. One older kid took off when he heard, never came back. Last I heard he got himself killed in a riot in some distant kingdom.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“He laughed at me. When he heard my parents died. Then he heard about his own, and...” Dean frowned, a pained tightness across his cheeks. “I didn’t know what to say to him. I wanted to go ‘ha, karma’. But... y’know. You don’t say that sort of thing. I never meant to even think it.”  
Castiel sat down heavily on the bed, watching Cupid arranging the clothes in the wardrobe just a bit straighter. He was doing nothing productive, really. Just listening, keeping them company. Castiel was glad, he needed Cupid’s presence.  
Dean sighed and went to the wardrobe, pulling out something long and black. “Put this on,” he said to Castiel, green eyes filling Castiel’s vision for a second as Dean came back to him, twirling the material over his shoulders. Castiel stood up and let it sway around him, all the way to the ground. “Travelling cloak,” Dean said. “Nobody’s meant to see you, this way you could be anyone. Come with me to the funeral, we can stand together.”  
Castiel nodded gently. Dean reached up and pulled the hood over his head. Castiel’s eyes fell into shadow, a black cocoon around his face. He could only see Dean in front of him, everything else was dark. It felt like how everything felt. Dean was his only light.  
“You look good in that,” Dean whispered, not smiling, but kind. “Shiny blue eyes, pale - kinda... beautiful.”  
“Thank you.”  
Dean looked like he was about to cry. He nodded his head down and pressed a glum kiss to Castiel’s lips, pushing forward then pulling away. “Come on, we gotta go.”  
Castiel looked to Cupid, who shooed them to the door with a hand. “Are you not coming?” Castiel asked.  
Cupid shook his head. “It’s just the kitchen folk, Andrew’s closest friends. Closed ceremony. Besides, I’m meant to be in the infirmary.”  
Castiel lurched forward to pull Cupid into a hug, the movement knocking his hood to his shoulders. Cupid swung his soft arms around him, sighing into his hair. Castiel straightened up and went to take Dean’s hand. Dean squeezed, nodded to Cupid, then they left together.  
As soon as they were out of Dean’s room, Castiel drew the hood back up, tightening it around his face, tugging it at the throat. There was a simple tie there, and he twisted it together with one hand. He watched the floor as they walked side-by-side, his hand in Dean’s.  
People walked past and saw them, and Castiel knew they saw the clasped hands and assumed Castiel was a woman. Dean must have thought the same thing, as he leaned closer to whisper, “Hey, swing your hips a bit when you walk. Not excessively, just, like, shift your weight onto the tops of your legs.”  
Castiel tried, feeling a strange pull on the sides of his hips. His legs felt like they were locking, and he glanced curiously to Dean. “Women walk like this all the time?”  
Dean met his eye briefly and shook his head. They began to descend a staircase, and Castiel found himself swaying more easily on the stairs. “Girls don’t have balls in the way,” Dean whispered, sentence dying out as a lord passed them the other way. “Put one foot in front of the other, like you’re walking on a line.”  
Castiel tried this once they reached the next corridor. His testicles did indeed feel very squashed, but he pressed on, encouraged by the way people gave no second glance when they passed. Castiel held the cloak a little tighter to his face, hiding his stubbled, masculine jaw.  
“Nice,” Dean said, taking the next staircase and pulling a few steps ahead to see how Castiel looked. “If I didn’t already love your dude-ness, I’d be totally attracted to you. Your eyes are really girly.”  
“No offence, of course,” Castiel smiled.  
Dean grinned back, even if it never reached his eyes. “Yeah, well, my lips are girl lips. Stick your eyes on a face with my lips? Make a pretty hot chick.”  
“We would create an attractive baby if we could mate,” Castiel mused.  
Dean said nothing for a while, and Castiel assumed he’d passed the comment off as an amusing thought. But after a minute, when they were almost at the courtyard with the fountain, Dean took a breath.  
“Did you ever want kids, Cas?”  
Castiel looked to Dean, watching his eyes drift over the morning sunlight that sparkled on the fountain. Castiel blinked. “I... I never even considered it. I am not aware if angel vessels are fertile, but... I have never met a child, so I have never had the chance to consider it. I can barely progress the things in my own life, I don’t think I am fit to raise a child.”  
“Things like that change, Cas. You’d get out of here and you’d be a, you know, proper person.”  
Castiel paused. “Do you want children?”  
Dean was quiet again for a while, slowing down to look at the fountain as they passed. “I never thought about it until Cassie. It wasn’t that we ever talked about it together, it was just... something that crosses your mind, when you’re screwing a girl. Like, oh crap, what if one day she starts swelling up, and there’s a goddamn _human_ inside her, something that’s gonna... it’s gonna think, and feel and move, and... it’s a whole other person. And it’s my responsibility to not screw it up.”  
“You never wanted responsibility,” Castiel said, standing slightly closer as Dean stopped completely to think. His eyes stared out at the courtyard, not seeing it at all.  
“It’s not that. It’s just too much, you know? Leading an army is one thing, they all have minds of their own. You tell them to do something, and they’re meant to do it, but they have the ultimate choice not to. The kid, man, the _kid_ \- that child, it’s gonna think you’re the world. What Daddy says, is what the world _is_.”  
“That scares you?”  
Dean took in a breath, and nodded. “Yeah.”  
Castiel watched Dean losing himself in thought. “That is what you are to me,” he said, blinking as Dean met his eyes, confused. Castiel nodded gently and continued, “Anything you tell me about the world, I have no reason to believe otherwise. You are my world.”  
Dean took in a tiny gasp, looking like he was about to tear up. “You’re not a child, Cas.”  
Castiel shook his head, then leaned to kiss Dean, holding their lips together for a long moment. “I don’t need to be. My childhood is now, my adulthood is now. I am a confusion of time and person and matter, and I am... making it up as I go along. There is no plan.”  
“Sounds like my sort of nightmare,” Dean sighed, caressing Castiel’s head through the cloak. “But no,” he said suddenly, dropping his head to his chest then looking back to Castiel. “I don’t want children. Maybe that might change, but...” he swallowed. “If I’m with you? I’m not gonna want that. Because it’s _you_ I want, and I’m not gonna ask you for something you - heh - clearly cannot give me.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, seeing his inherent male-ness. “I am glad, because I don’t think I would enjoy swelling and carrying a human inside of me.”  
Dean hummed, pulling Castiel into a hug, arms rumpling the cloak at his back. “I’ve seen it happen, it’s kinda freaky. Nice, in a way, but freaky. To girls, I mean. Not angels.”  
Dean pulled away and took Castiel’s hand again, tugging him back into a walk. Dean knew where they held funerals, even if Castiel didn’t. He followed, not sure if he was meant to feel so curious about what a funeral really was. Was it any different to a memorial? Would they see Andy’s body, as Dean had seen the charred remains of his family?  
Dean led them to the church. Castiel kept his head down again as the people around them increased in number. None of them were in black, it was only Dean and Castiel. It was sunny, still some time before midday. Perhaps ten o’clock in the morning, Castiel couldn’t be sure when he couldn’t see the sky. They strode along the walkway outside the church, Dean slowing down before they got inside.  
“All right, Cas - don’t talk to anyone. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just stick by me, okay? This is the belly of the beast. It’s all monks and people who know the Priestess personally. Missouri's in there, I can see her... there’s Pamela. Bobby’s at the top, he’s reading stuff out. And there’s―”  
Dean sucked in a sharp breath and his hand clenched tighter on Castiel’s.  
“What is it?”  
“You know what, I think you should stay out here, there’s plenty of respects you can pay from outside.”  
“Dean, who’s in there?” Castiel looked up, still hiding his face under the cloak, but trying to see across the distance between them and the candle-lit church building. The people inside were gathered in the crossing, where the giant crucifix of the floor met in the middle. Dean took a hesitant step to try to block Castiel’s view, but Castiel had already seen the white dress. “Meg. She’s... why is she here?”  
Dean flattened his lips in a line. “Because she’s probably trying to cover for herself. If it was really her that killed Andy―”  
“It was.”  
“―then she’s trying to act sad, make it look like she cares about the little people. Maybe to see her mess to the end.”  
“Missouri knows, though, she always knows. Why is she just standing there, letting Meg - why is she just letting her _stand_ there?!” Castiel found he was very upset, affected by the thought that nobody was stopping Meg. Just standing by and letting her get away with it.  
“Cas―”  
Castiel had already pushed past, dragging his hood down to his shoulders as he crossed the threshold into the church. He walked with purpose, determination, and a building anger inside him.  
Dean ran after him. Castiel knew he was trying very hard not to shout his name and call him back.  
“MEG!” Castiel bellowed, feeling his eyes flash in fury. “You heartless _bitch_ , look at me when I am talking to you.”  
Dean put a stilling hand on Castiel’s arm, trying to stop him from walking so quickly. Castiel blazed past and out of Dean’s grip like it was nothing.  
“You _murderer!_ ” Castiel hissed. “You can barely control yourself, look how pathetic you are - you hurt, you maim, you feel _nothing_ ―”  
“Cas,” Dean whispered, stomping his way in front of Castiel. “They can’t hear you, look at them.”  
Castiel shoved Dean aside, rushing onward in his rage, not registering anything Dean said. He was halfway up the aisle now, the pews ten paces away on either side of him. He felt them passing like markers as he made his way forward.  
“I leave you, for as little as two nights, and look at the _damage_ you cause,” Castiel blared, bare feet crossing the floor so heavily he felt the ground shaking. “LOOK AT ME!”  
“Cas,” Dean begged, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders, stopping him before he took the last few steps to Missouri's side. Meg was on the opposite side, close to Bobby. Her head was lowered, streaks of fraudulent tears on her cheeks.  
“Listen to me, they can’t hear you.”  
“Wh-what?”  
“Look.” Dean turned to let Castiel see the assembled group. It was only seven people, a few people Castiel recognised from the kitchen. Gabriel was there, as well. They had not even raised their heads as Castiel had entered, nor batted an eyelash as his voice had echoed around the church.  
“Why can’t they - why aren’t I―?”  
“Because,” a voice said, deep and smooth, “it would be a very impudent thing for you to do, Castiel, to reveal yourself like this and force all of your friends to give you up for dead.” Death nodded his head upward, stern.  
Castiel looked back at him, trembling in Dean’s grip. “I... I don’t understand.”  
“Don’t play at being foolish,” Death shook his head. “You know the things she would do if she saw you.”  
Castiel paused, drawing in a shallow inhalation. “You’re protecting me.”  
“Of course,” Death said. Dean squeezed Castiel’s shoulder reassuringly.  
“We got your back, Cas. Don’t do anything stupid.”  
Castiel hung his head. “This is not stupid,” he sighed. “I want to be angry, I want to - I want to be _angry_ ―”  
“You can be angry, Castiel,” said Death, nodding once. “But not here, not while she has power over you or me. I can protect you only while your will remains true to what _you_ want. You let yourself slip into her grasp and you are lost to me. Her curse upon me is... thorough.”  
Dean nodded to Death, respectful and grateful. Castiel looked between them, desperately trying not to swing himself back into his furious stride. But there was no point if Meg couldn’t hear his insults.  
Castiel screwed up his face, setting a palm over one half. “I feel... so many things. It’s so confusing.”  
Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, sighing. “It’s human, Cas.”  
“I change my mind so often, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what to do―”  
“I know what you want,” Dean said, dragging soft fingertips across Castiel’s jaw. “If you don’t know, if you’re not sure? I am. But I’m not gonna tell you. It’s up to you to decide.” He kissed Castiel, chaste.  
Castiel sighed as he moved away again, Dean’s hand sliding down his cloaked arm. Castiel nodded, then said softly, “I choose to be protected. So many people wish to keep me safe... I am being selfish to want otherwise.”  
Dean shook his head. “The reason you’re confused is because you’re going to feel selfish no matter what you choose. If you want our protection, you have to _want_ it. Don’t pick it because it’ll make us all happy. It’s not happiness we’re after, it’s having you―” Dean pulled Castiel close again, shaking out a wobbly sigh. “It’s having you safe, Cas. That’s what love is. Letting someone be happy is only the second part of it. Safety first, always safety first.”  
Castiel caught Death’s gaze, who held it, then nodded. Castiel closed his eyes and melted into Dean’s embrace. “Then I choose safety. I choose safety, and love. I regret dearly the people that Meg will hurt... We need to stop her. That is... that is the only thing I can think of.”  
Castiel pulled away from Dean sharply, grasping his arms in gentle fists. “That is my purpose, now. To love you, and to bring Meg down.”  
Dean’s face broke into a wide smile. “Good for you, Cas.”  
Castiel nodded, heaving a sigh. He felt relieved. Some burden had been lifted. To know, to really _know_ what he wanted... there was no doubt about it, that drive of simply _knowing_ was going to fuel him until he got what he wanted.  
“You wanna stay for the funeral?” Dean asked, quietly. He glanced to Death, who blinked a thought at him. “We can stay invisible. Wait until it’s over then decide what to do next.”  
“You have your training today,” Castiel reasoned. “You must do your duty, we cannot spend the day together.”  
“The nice thing about being Death,” said Death, “is that people tend to forget things like other people’s duties when they’re around me.”  
Dean glanced at him quickly. “What’d you mean?”  
“I mean,” Death said, witheringly, but smiling at Castiel, “that if you would rather spend the day doing things that would otherwise be overlooked, I recommend that is what you do. And do it without a thought to your so-called duties. I dare say you have such little time left, it should really be spent enjoying yourselves.”  
And then he vanished into thin air. One second he was there, and then it was like the whole world turned inside-out for a moment, leaving a Death-shaped hole right where both Dean and Castiel were looking.  
“‘Such little time left’?” Dean repeated. “What does that mean?”  
Castiel sucked in a breath. “I would rather not think about it.”  
Dean was perceptibly dwelling on Death’s words, even as he guided Castiel by the elbow up to the casket that the small crowd was gathered around. Castiel held back, now quite wary. He had never seen a dead person before.  
“Dean?” he began. “What... what’s going to happen to Andy?”  
Dean’s gaze landed on Castiel’s face and seemed to soften somehow. “His body? They bury his body in the ground. But his soul... goes to Heaven.”  
Castiel glanced to the wooden box on the platform, Bobby reading the Bible at its head, near the altar, looking like he was almost done. Dean tugged on Castiel’s elbow, trying to move him closer, but Castiel held back, and Dean returned to his side to let him talk.  
“Heaven... Are you sure that’s where he’ll go?”  
Dean shrugged a shoulder. “God’s gonna judge for Himself, but yeah, I figure Andy was a good guy, can’t have done much wrong in his twenty-odd years.”  
“How do people know so much about Heaven and Hell, when us fallen angels, who lived there... we know nothing? It seems... unfair.”  
Dean heard something in his question and turned his full attention to Castiel. He glanced back as Bobby closed his Bible, reciting something else from memory now. “Cas,” Dean said, “you’re immortal... you don’t need to worry about the afterlife.”  
“I worry for _you_ , Dean. I don’t want you to go where I can’t follow.”  
Dean was about to reply but they were both distracted; Meg strode past them, chin held high, wiping her tears away without a hint of care on her face. All an act, as both Dean and Castiel knew.  
Gabriel went next, head down. He looked sullen and deep in thought, lips drawn flat. Castiel reached an arm to touch Gabriel’s - Gabriel twitched and scratched an itch at the place Castiel had touched. Castiel watched him go, sighing.  
Two more people from the kitchen passed, one patting tears from his eyes, the other resting her hand on his shoulder as she guided him to the exit. The only people that remained at the coffinside were Bobby, Missouri and Pamela.  
Castiel dropped Dean’s hand and edged forward, gulping. Dean hung back, letting Castiel go at his own pace. Castiel drew in a breath and held it, stepping close enough to see over the edge of the coffin. Andy’s face was pale, as empty of expression as it might be in sleep. He appeared uninjured.  
Andy didn’t breathe - for a moment Castiel was actually expecting it, and took a few seconds before he remembered that he never would again. Castiel suddenly felt very sad. There was something else, beside the sadness. Anger, yes, and regret, and guilt... But the emotion that he could name most easily, was sadness. He had never felt it like this before.  
Death... it was strange.  
Humans never understood it, but they accepted it. They lived their lives, then their gift ended, for any number of reasons. Endless, random reasons. Even life itself was a strange phenomena. It made no sense. To breathe, to feel emotion. To know things, to want things.  
And then, to have it all end, to be empty. To be... no more.  
Castiel shook his head, curling a hand over the side of the casket. It was cheap wood, just offcuts from other things. Not even nailed together, just slotted. Castiel wondered if they would even bury Andy inside it. He knew that people did, but Andy had no money. Unless one of his friends were to pay for a funeral, Andy’s body was likely to just be thrown into the pit of all the other people who had died that day, some place in the lower town.  
Death had told Castiel about this practice. Being Death, he had what one might call a morbid fascination with society’s practices. Castiel held a certain level of curiosity for all things, and so mass graves were something that had intrigued him. But now? He didn’t like the idea at all. Andy needed his own place, somewhere his body could disintegrate in peace. It had served him well in life, and so in death, it should not crumble into the bones of others. Andy was his own man, he needed his own grave.  
“Dean...”  
“Already on it,” Dean whispered, to Castiel’s right. He pulled out a coin from his pocket as Castiel watched, and set it on the white cloth that covered Andy’s legs.  
They were invisible, yes, but Pamela could see them. She saw everything through those blind eyes of hers. She smiled and nodded to Dean, and took the coin, setting it inside Missouri’s hand as she stroked Andy’s face. Missouri looked up, eyebrows raised.  
Pamela swallowed a lump of emotion, then said, “From our friend Dean Winchester.”  
Dean cleared his throat and nodded his head sideways at Castiel. Pamela flicked her head a slight, so both men saw she shifted her gaze, even if her eyes had not moved.  
“And Castiel.”  
Bobby and Missouri turned to look in the direction of Pamela's gaze, seeing nothing. Missouri straightened up, eyes roaming the area at the foot of the coffin. “Thank you, it means a lot.”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said. Pamela pressed her lips in a smile, forced, but real nonetheless.  
Missouri closed her eyes and set her hand back on Andy’s head. She sighed, long and cleansing, then let out a soft noise. “Oh, Andy. Such a fool, such a _fool_...”  
“Whoa, hey, what did he do?” Dean asked, stepping forward and knocking his knuckles twice on the edge of the box. Bobby and Missouri looked at the sound sharply, then tracked their eyes to vaguely in the direction of Dean’s face.  
Pamela smirked. “Dean would like an elaboration.”  
“Damn right I do, Cas is blaming himself for Andy’s death.”  
Pamela’s eyebrows set outward as she said, “Oh no, _no_ , Castiel, don’t blame yourself.”  
Missouri said nothing but shook her head slowly. “Meg Masters. She found...” Missouri frowned, eyes squinting as they closed. “She traced... Oh, Andy.”  
Bobby opened his mouth to grumble, “Can I get a straight answer or are we gonna be standing here until God himself comes to bury this guy? I’m five whole hours past my shift, I’m pooped.” He did indeed look very tired.  
Missouri licked her lips and ignored him. “Andy tried to do something... something,” she tilted her head, “with the Priestess’ own magic. No... no, not hers. Castiel’s?”  
Pamela glanced to Castiel and he nodded. “She is using my Grace.”  
Missouri didn’t even need to hear it, already knowing this as she searched Andy’s deceased mind. She twitched, then held out a hand to Pamela, waiting for her to take it. Pamela squeezed, and Missouri breathed a sigh, her scrunched-up face easing some.  
“Andy used the... ‘power-o’-love’, to break inside Meg’s mind.” She shook her head. “Andy, you fool, you didn’t need to do that, you already had the power. I told you, I _told_ you you were powerful...”  
Missouri then pressed her mouth in a fierce line. “Meg blasted him out, knowing full well what she was doing.” Her forehead creased with pained wrinkles, as she wailed, “Oh, and so much pain... a cat toying with a mouse, playing, _playing_ with her prey.”  
She shook her head violently and flung her hand away from Andy’s head, tugging free of Pamela’s grip. “Cruel and hateful, no mercy, no sense of respect.”  
Dean looked between Pamela and Missouri, a question forming on his lips. “Wait, so... it was nothing to do with Cas not being around? Meg didn’t just randomly get a craving to hurt someone and take it out on the first person she found?”  
Pamela glanced up, shaking her head. “I already told you, fuzzy, you ain’t done nothing to make her take it out on Andy. She’s just a piss-poor excuse for a person.”  
Dean’s hand found Castiel’s arm and pressed against it as Castiel let out a quiet suspiration. “Told you, buddy.”  
“That does not mean it won’t happen that way later,” Castiel said, coldly. “One day soon she will find someone she very much enjoys to torture. Perhaps a young, dark-haired pale man, a compliant will, soft-spoken...”  
“Rat?”  
Castiel bowed his head, eyes closed. “Meg may have despised how other humans feel pleasure, how they find comfort in other people, but she always appreciated how I looked. She enjoyed being able to make my appearance change with the cut of a blade, or the slap of her hand across my face. She controlled it, she felt powerful.  
“I never understood the emotion until I experienced the exhilaration of a horseback ride, or the bliss of marking your body as we make love. To make those marks, to feel that pleasure...” Castiel swallowed bitterly, trying to hold in a tear that tickled his eyelid. “She would find another person to replace me. As closely resembling me as possible. I know her well, as much as I hate the fact.”  
Dean swayed from side-to-side, despairing. “Aw, man, now I gotta put out protections on Rat as well, dammit. Poor kid, he had nowhere to go but up.”  
“It only serves to remind us that we must bring Meg down as fast as possible,” Castiel said. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Bobby and Pamela took either end of Andy’s coffin, lifting it with Missouri on one side and a monk on the other.  
Dean made to follow but Castiel took his wrist and held him back. “I don’t want to see where he is buried.” Castiel swallowed and explained, “I wish to remember him alive, not as a headstone in a pile of dirt. The way I saw him now, he looked close to a living face.” He was about to elaborate further but Dean patted him on the shoulder, nodding.  
“It’s cool, man, we can go someplace else, take our minds off it.”  
“How long will we be invisible?”  
Dean shrugged. “Until we don’t want to be any more, I guess.”  
Castiel blinked. “I would like to... visit the garret. I think clearly up there, the air seems thinner and my thoughts are easier to grasp.”  
Dean twined their hands together and nodded. He seemed very subdued, Castiel thought. Usually Dean smiled, and grinned, and laughed, making jokes. Any jokes he made today were strained, and only served as a distraction. Castiel wanted the old Dean back, the one without a mind consumed with the feeling of grief and bereavement.  
He pulled Dean to a walk, and together they headed for the exit of the church. Castiel breathed in the musty scent of old wood and stone, and a little incense. He smelled no death in the air, only the summer dust once they stepped into the walkway. The courtyard ahead was beautiful as ever, but sullied by the white figure that stood in the centre, arms raised as monks crowded to praise her.  
Castiel held Dean’s hand tighter, turning his head away as they passed. He pulled his hood up, even though nobody could see them. He felt safer, not being able to see Meg.  
Neither of them said anything, all the way to the castle. By the time they had climbed to the second floor, Castiel was panting, but caught Dean’s eye briefly and then kept climbing.  
The garret was so high up, Castiel knew Dean hated the height. But, he was going to see the view today whether he wanted to or not. If Castiel thought more clearly up there, he hoped Dean would as well.  
Third floor, fourth floor. Castiel let go of Dean’s hand when they got too sweaty together, uncomfortably hot. As the daylight soaked into the stone, the heat of the castle in the sun carried up from below, and every floor was warmer than the last. It might be inconvenient to some extent, but the warmth was calming to Castiel. He always found heat calming. The heat of Dean against him, the radiance of a fire, of the sun. His own hands pressed to each other, or the burn of lust as it filled him. He was a heat-seeking creature, much like a cat.  
He smiled for a moment, imagining himself as a feline wrapped in Dean’s arms, purring contentedly. Maybe one day they would own a cat together. If they could not have a child together, a cat would suffice.  
~x~  
Castiel broke off his story and hummed a happy note, which Sam thought was peculiar, as only moments earlier, he’d been sullen and subdued as he recounted his tale. Even Sam had felt Andy’s loss, despite never knowing him personally.  
“What’re you so cheerful about?” Bobby grunted.  
Castiel gave another pleased sound, then sighed. “I did have a cat. She always loved the warmth, like myself.”  
Sam blinked at the road as it swayed under the cart, then he smirked. “What was her name?”  
“Chelle.” Castiel sighed heavily on her name, shoulder hitting Sam’s as the cart bounced. “She was white, with so many other beautiful colours amongst the white. I found her as a kitten.”  
Sam smiled. “What did you do with her?”  
“I cared for her, but I could never let Meg see. While Chelle was still small, I could keep her inside my shirt during the day.” He chuckled, then continued, “She didn’t like it much at first, but after a few days, she began to seek comfort with me. I had never before felt that kind of connection with another creature.”  
He swallowed audibly. “I...”  
Then he trailed off, before taking a breath and speaking again: “She disappeared.”  
Castiel fell quiet for half a minute, and Sam was just about to speak, when Castiel interrupted. “She returned to me, though. It was many, many months later.”  
Castiel whined out a laugh, leaning forward on his knees and setting a hand over his mouth so Sam heard his voice muffled. “She produced a litter of kittens in my bedroom, but I... couldn’t keep them. Meg would have destroyed them.  
“What did you do with them?”  
“I gave them to Gabriel. I was determined that Chelle should stay with them, that she have a family. But after a few weeks...”  
Gabriel picked up the sentence once Castiel trailed off. “I took them to a corn farm on the outskirts of the city. Six of them, never met a tinier bunch of things that _puke_.”  
Castiel chuckled.  
Gabriel clacked the wooden bar of the cart as he directed the wheels away from a dip in the road, barely visible in the dark. “Chelle stuck around at the castle, though,” he nickered.  
“I never knew where she went. I never saw her again.” Castiel let out another sigh, probably feeling nostalgic.  
Sam tilted his head, recalling something. “Do you think she’d be around the kitchen?”  
Castiel looked at Sam, a movement that Sam felt more than saw. “Why do you ask that?”  
“Um... Dean mentioned something. Way back... days ago. He was telling me about talking to Missouri, and he was just... petting this cat, a calico―”  
Castiel interrupted with a gasp. “She was there? The whole time?!”  
Sam shrugged a shoulder, bumping it on Castiel’s side. “Guess so.”  
Castiel let out another slow, slow sigh. Then he rumbled a short laugh, which he dragged out into a long note before it tailed off in yet another sigh. “I’m glad she met Dean.”  
Sam smiled.  
~x~  
“God, this castle is too friggin’ tall,” Dean huffed, leaning against a wall as he waited for Castiel to catch up. He swallowed heavily, opening his mouth and starting to pant again.  
“I enjoy seeing you out of breath,” Castiel mentioned, passing Dean and starting on the next flight of stairs. “When you’ve been running or climbing stairs, you breathe much the same way as when you are making love.”  
“So do you,” Dean grinned, breathing deeply before skipping up the last few stairs between them, running beside Castiel as they raced each other up the next flight. “You kind of make this moaning, wheezy sound as you breathe out. It’s different in sex, though, you whimper a bit more.”  
“Whimpering sounds like an extremely pitiful thing to do,” Castiel sighed, getting dizzy as he talked at the same time as climbing. “The sounds one makes during sex are quite demeaning to oneself as a whole.”  
Dean chuckled, and Castiel knew he was laughing at the way he talked, rather than his actual point. “You should hear some girls, Cas,” Dean said, huffing.  
“What do they sound like?”  
Dean stopped suddenly as a maid came through a door, bustling into the staircase with a stack of trays. She set them down on the banister to sort them. Evidently, she could not see Dean or Castiel at all. Dean met Castiel’s eye and grinned savagely.  
Dean threw back his head and moaned, falling against a wall as he writhed. The sound he made was not something Castiel had ever thought possible from his lips; it was animalistic, loud and passionate... but whooping, shivering, whining. Dean bit his lip, somehow more invested in his cries than he’d begun thinking he would get. Castiel could not deny that the sound was exciting.  
The maid heard nothing, still re-stacking her plates.  
Dean put a hand in his own hair and ground his hips into the space in front of him, keening like a wolf or a wild bird. It sounded very much like Dean was enjoying himself. He was out of breath, shaking on his legs, eyes closed. Castiel gulped and ignored the maid completely as she passed on by.  
Dean stretched an arm above his head, the backs of his knuckles dragging feather-light on the wall. He sobbed, mouth open and lips wet.  
Castiel felt something twinge inside him, and he grabbed Dean by the shirt, stepping right against him, thigh pressing into Dean’s crotch. Dean gasped slowly and let his eyes fall open, half-crooked grin on his face.  
“You like that?”  
Castiel’s eyes drifted from Dean’s lips to his eyes, examining the state of semi-arousal he seemed to be in. Castiel nodded, slowly. “You should make those noises more often.”  
Dean cocked his head. “The noises I make normally... how are they?”  
Castiel paused for a second. “If you made these noises, they would be manufactured, wouldn’t they?”  
Dean bumped his lip, eyes turning away for a split second, then back. “Guess they’re a bit more showy. The sounds I make normally, they’re real, but,” Dean blinked, “I guess if I was with a girl, I’d hold them in.”  
Castiel frowned, turning his head slightly. “Why?”  
“It’s not what guys do, I guess? I dunno, I never watched another guy doing it before, but, it kind of felt weird, to be moaning all the time. With a girl, it’s mostly just breathing, some manly grunting. Y’know? _Rrr_.”  
Castiel dropped his eyes to Dean’s lips, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment. “When you make love to me, all I want to do is moan. You make me vocalise my pleasure, somehow. I could be screaming, and gasping, and...” he licked his lips, “I feel nothing would hold me back from that. It makes no sense to even try.”  
Dean shrugged, and Castiel backed away to let him straighten his shirt. “When I first did it with you... it felt easy to just, let it all out. Just clicked, and boom, I’m moaning and... yeah, whimpering. Pitifully.” Dean smirked, slapping Castiel’s arm before stepping past and starting up the stairs again. “You bring out the girl in me, Cas.”  
“I am very manly, of course,” Castiel said.  
Dean laughed, bending forward over the stairs. Castiel couldn’t help but smile; this was the Dean he’d missed all day. It was a real laugh, the kind that made Dean’s knees weak. It was almost orgasmic, the way Dean laughed. Maybe that was why they both enjoyed it so much. Laughter was pleasure, just another kind they could share.  
They made it to the last corridor, still laughing. There was no reason for it; they should have been mourning, they should have been as down-spirited as before. But neither of them wanted to deal with loss like this. Andy was never sad for long, Andy was never held down by something. If he wanted to laugh, he went ahead and laughed. Truth be told, Castiel barely thought about the loss of Andy once they passed the fifth or sixth floor. By the time they were halfway along that last corridor, Dean on Castiel’s heels as he chased him, the time for mourning Andy had passed. If he was truly in Heaven, as Dean said, then there was no reason to be sad.  
Castiel shrieked as Dean tried to catch him around the middle, hands biting through his shirt. He pulled him into the dark staircase, the final one to the garret. Dean wrapped his arms around him and they chuckled, Castiel pulling away, but only making it a few steps more before Dean pushed him into the wall, hugging him brutally, like his arms were trying to fight their way inside him. Dean wasn’t laughing any more, trying so very hard to pull Castiel closer.  
“Dean, are you... are you okay?”  
Dean let out a heavy, wet sniff, voice broken like he’d been drowned. “I’m - I’m - no.”  
Castiel let Dean wrestle him into the wall, feeling rather than hearing his huge sobs, shaking and grappling his hands in Castiel’s hair. Castiel didn’t see how quickly Dean’s emotions had changed, from laughing, to sorrowing and tearful, but he let it happen, let him draw him ever closer.  
“God,” Dean breathed, the single word thick with grief. “I hate this, I _hate_ it.”  
Castiel shook his head, trying to stroke Dean’s hair. Dean dripped a tear onto Castiel’s neck, sniffing loudly and letting out a shaky puff of hot air. “The loss you feel for your family... is different from this,” said Castiel.  
Dean nodded, head knocking into Castiel’s. “I never knew death when my family left me.” He swallowed hard, so loudly Castiel heard it in his own head. “It kind of rode in like a man on a horse, all shiny armour and pointy goddamn flaming sword.” He sighed, gulping again. Castiel kept stroking his hair, ignoring the press of wood in his back as Dean kept him pinned to the wall.  
“Andy dying,” Dean said, hiccuping very gently, “it’s like someone just dropped the sword on my head. Slides through me, hides in my body until I move too much, then it starts cutting at me.”  
“It really feels so vivid?” Castiel whispered. “To me... it feels like a heaviness, something tying my feet, binding my throat.”  
Dean screwed up his face, hands shaking on Castiel’s head, rustling his hair. “Feels different for everyone. But it hurts, it always hurts.”  
Castiel gulped, kissing Dean’s damp jaw softly. “I feel like I could press the heaviness down. Not feel anything. I barely knew Andy, but I feel others’ love for him, I feel their loss.  
“My feelings are a mixture; from you I get something new, you were a new friend. From Missouri, I feel the loss of a child, a baby torn from her womb; someone else’s child, but her own, completely her own. Pamela... a friend, an apprentice. She feels Andy will never be replaced. She fears it. She fears the emptiness.” Castiel gasped, struggling for breath through his tight throat. “She... she lives around death, she knows death and speaks to the dead, but... the emptiness of loss of a presence is what she feels. Not the emptiness of loss of life.”  
Dean let a fresh wave of tears cascade hotly down his cheeks, still making no sound. His lips came apart stickily and with a strand of saliva as Castiel kissed him, trying to kiss his pain away.  
He was not expecting it to help, but Dean calmed a little bit. He took a deep breath and let Castiel relax, not kneeing him back into the wall any more. In the darkness, Castiel reached a hand to brush Dean’s tears from his cheeks. Dean held the hand there as it touched, and Castiel felt tears rolling into it, new ones.  
“Only grief makes you spill your tears like this,” Castiel said, hushed. “Your pain has never left you.”  
“It never will.”  
Castiel took Dean’s hand and led him up the rest of the stairs, onto the floor of the garret. The dust was still and untouched, sun pouring into the hallway from above. Perhaps just before midday, the sun some way off from directly above.  
It was warm up here, very warm. Castiel breathed a sigh and turned to see Dean hastily wiping his tears away with his free hand. He glanced up at Castiel, and Castiel saw his eyes shine, rimmed with red, letting a tear fall occasionally.  
“I can’t stop crying, Cas.”  
“There is no shame in it,” Castiel said, slotting his feet between Dean’s boots and wrapping his arms around him. “There is no shame in weeping.”  
“It’s what babies do.”  
Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head. “It is what humans do.”  
Dean trembled and leant his head on Castiel’s shoulder, shuddering. Castiel heard him gulp again, hands coming to rest on the back of Castiel’s neck. They stayed that way a long while, until Dean stopped shaking, until he breathed normally. He laughed gently and wiped his face on Castiel’s shirt - well, Dean’s shirt. Castiel felt the dampness on his skin, then the chill of it as Dean pulled away.  
Dean’s eyes were almost back to normal now, even if his face seemed weary, too tired to smile. He heaved a shaky, wet sigh, letting it all out with a slump of his shoulders. Castiel nodded once, accepting this as Dean’s request to move on.  
Castiel turned to look out down the hallway, wondering if they could sit up on the windowsill and look at the view while Dean was still uneasy. Dean answered the unasked question himself, when he lifted himself up using only the muscles of his arms, then swung a leg up.  
The sill was a couple of feet wide, wooden, bathed in sun. Castiel had always had trouble lifting himself up there; he might have been muscular, but he, as an angel, was unused to using the muscles in the same way his vessel did.  
Castiel put his arms up like Dean had done, palms flat on the wood, a shoulder-width apart. Dean watched him about to attempt it, not yet looking out of the window.  
Castiel sucked in a breath and hefted upward - he coughed and fell back, squeaking in surprise. Dust churned up under his heavy footfall, and Dean hissed a grin.  
“Come on, you’re just not practised enough. You’ve got the strength, learn to use it.”  
Castiel nodded, clasping the wood again and trying to walk up the wall, but his feet slipped, dry and frictionless from the dust. He sighed and held out a hand to Dean. Dean rolled his eyes and took it, holding tight as Castiel shuffled upward, one hand groping the wood and inching his way up by the sides of his feet. He collapsed onto the flat sill, pleased to have made it ten times faster than he usually did.  
He removed the travelling cloak and set it beside him, then rolled up his long black sleeves to his elbow.  
“All right, now we’re up here,” Dean said, patting his hands in a rhythm on his knees, then quickly swiping his nose with his sleeve, “do I _really_ wanna look out this window? Am I gonna scream and hate you forever?”  
“Hating me forever is not something I think you will do. But screaming... yes, quite possibly. I recommend you hold onto my hand.”  
Dean examined the proffered hand, then huffed and slapped his own into it. He was a few inches of a head-turn away from looking directly out, sun warming the lines of his shoulders.  
“On three, or is that a bad idea?”  
“I suggest you take quick, fleeting looks and allow yourself to adjust before looking back.”  
Dean swallowed a lungful of air, nodding with his eyes on the opposite wall. “Okay, okay, okay...” He whistled silently, forcing a rush of air free.  
He nodded again, more to himself than Castiel. He swerved his head quickly, took a second’s glimpse, then returned his gaze to the other wall.  
“Oh. Oh mm...” Dean swallowed hard. “We’re not on Earth any more, we’re in a cloud, we’re not...”  
Castiel glanced out of the window. “That is not a cloud, that is the city.”  
Dean blanched. “Wh...”  
“It is not as far away as you think, take another look.”  
Dean steeled himself then went back to take a full blink’s worth of staring downwards. He looked away once more and screeched under his breath. “It’s moving, it’s moving, oh God.”  
Castiel squinted at the city below. “Those are people. I see a horse and cart, and a small flock of sheep.”  
Dean stole another quick look, this time taking a few seconds to take in what he actually was seeing. He puffed out a nervous breath as he looked away for the third time, his hand shaking a little in Castiel’s. “If I touched that window, we’d fall all that way.”  
“The window will not break.”  
Dean shook his head. “Not in any position to test that theory. Nope, nope, nope.” He dragged in a another deep breath before squeezing his eyes tight shut. “All right, fine, it’s pretty awesome. But, God, we are too goddamn high up.”  
“I have never discerned why,” Castiel said, “but it always looks much higher from above than it does when you are below, looking up.”  
“That’s because it’s a magic castle and it eats people.”  
Castiel smiled gently at Dean. “That does not explain anything.”  
Dean began to tap his foot nervously, toes wriggling in his boot. He squeezed Castiel’s hand then looked again, not moving his head away this time. He whined under his breath, mouth closed. After blinking for a long time, he calmed down, his foot ceasing its tapping.  
“There, you see?” Castiel said. “It is not scary at all once you get used to it.”  
“I never said it wasn’t scary. Or that I was used to it. I’m just thinking, if I look away, everything is going to fall someplace. Ever occur to you the only thing holding us up is other bits of stuck-together rock?”  
“The likes of which have held together for centuries.”  
Dean’s face twitched, but he braved a quick glance to Castiel’s face, and straight away the terror in his eyes subsided to a mild uneasiness. Something about Castiel’s eyes was calming, he knew that.  
Dean nodded, still nodding as he craned forward, closer to the window so he could see more of the city. Every building was white, gleaming bright in the sun. The haze of heat rebounded off the roofs, and even far above, the shapes of birds were distorted, the image wobbling as it made its way to Dean and Castiel.  
“All right, _fine_ ,” Dean sighed. “This is really kinda... perfect. Serene and sweet and beautiful, and all of that poetic crap.”  
Castiel shuffled closer to the window, leaning the side of his head on a wooden beam between two window panes. Dean eyed his proximity to the window unhappily, but saw how relaxed Castiel looked, cross-legged, eyes blinking slowly, shoulders down... Dean rolled his eyes and edged closer to his own wooden beam, letting go of Castiel’s hand to slide his whole body into the sun. Their bodies were less than a foot apart, Dean’s boot tapping occasionally whenever he looked away from Castiel for too long.  
Dean let out a puff of air out through his mouth and then pulled his lips into a tiny smile, locking eyes with Castiel. “Thanks, Cas.”  
“Any time.”  
Dean smirked and looked down at the view again. They were silent for a few minutes, but Castiel could just about hear the muddle of unclear thoughts that Dean was sorting through. That was the point of the garret, to think.  
Dean glanced at Castiel after a while, eyes flashing bright green in the sun. “Cas...”  
“Yes?”  
“You said, earlier... you don’t want me to go... where you can’t follow. About death. When I die.”  
Castiel frowned, displeased that this was where the conversation had gone so quickly. He lowered his head and began to speak: “There are so many possibilities for death. Heaven, Hell, a void of nothingness. The idea of simply not existing any longer.”  
“What are you worried about? Outliving me?”  
“Not only that.” Castiel drew in a breath, pained. He kept his eyes on the window, not wanting to look at Dean. “Of having you die, and... oh, so many things. So many.” He frowned and found he had to look at Dean, if only for reassurance.  
“Of you dying in my arms, of you dying young, of me having to watch you die. Of us being separated for eternity, of you never remembering me. Of me never remembering you. To have you die, and not be able to follow you into death. Even if I found a way to die, as a fallen angel, I would go to someplace different than you would go in death.” He held up a hand as Dean opened his mouth to speak. “It does not matter how human you believe me to be. My species and rules of existence are not on the same band of reality as yours. I will die differently.”  
Dean seemed to taste a sour lemon in his mouth, like his own tongue had wronged him. “I don’t want to think about dying, Cas. I hate dying, I would hate to leave someone behind. Or to have someone leave me.”  
“Then why did you ask?”  
Dean tried to answer but could not. He shook his head. “Dunno.”  
Castiel eyed Dean’s lowered gaze for a long moment, watching his long eyelashes flicker in the sunlight. “If you died, Dean... I would find any means necessary to follow you.”  
“Wh... Cas...”  
“I cannot live without you. I know how dramatic that must sound, but... again, governed by my species, I mate for life. Given my ties to endless life, my need to stay with you extends that.”  
“Cas... please―”  
“Dean, I want you to promise me something.”  
Dean was silent for a long while, knowing he would hate whatever came out of Castiel’s mouth next. “Tell me what it is first.”  
“If you die, if you are injured in battle, or by old age, or by whatever means your life ends... Please...” Castiel’s voice broke, not into tears, but into a well of desperate pain. “Please, take your sword, and end my life.”  
Dean sat up straight, mouth agape. “Cas... Cas, no―”  
“ _Please, Dean._ ” Castiel knew how wrecked his face looked, just as he knew how utterly necessary it was for Dean to agree to this. He didn’t know how much pain it would cause to live without him, for Dean had never loved anyone as much as Castiel loved him.  
Dean’s brow furrowed. “But you don’t even die like that, you don’t die by injury.”  
“I will find a way. I will find a way to die.” Castiel nodded firmly. He suddenly felt like an old man. This was the decision of an old man, not a young one. Castiel could be immortal, he could live millennia. But he did not want to. Because of Dean. Because of his love.  
Dean’s gaze fell to Castiel’s feet, shaking his head in something that might be awe. Apprehension, certainly. “You realise what you’re asking me, right?”  
Castiel nodded, his mind was as clear as the day. “I am asking you to kill me. When the end comes, I want you to take me with you.”  
Dean put a hand over his mouth, still shaking his head. “You’ve known me two weeks, Cas. You’re six years old.”  
Castiel shook his head. “You told me that when you meet someone for the first time, if they are the person that you...” he huffed and turned his head away, examining the sky. “There is a spark. A flame ignited. Of the kind that would not go out.”  
“You felt that right away with me?”  
Castiel looked back, surprised. “You did not?”  
Dean held his gaze, sucking in a soft breath. “I didn’t want to believe it. But yeah, I did.”  
Castiel nodded as if something had been decided. Perhaps it had. Dean caught his flashed glance as Castiel turned his eyes up, and also nodded, very very slightly. Castiel let out a tiny sigh and smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered.  
“I hope you know you can back out,” Dean said. “Any time. Say the word and we never mention it again, no questions asked.”  
“I will never change my mind.”  
Dean shook his head. “Offer still stands.”  
Castiel thought it prudent to argue, since Dean was adamant he would one day change his mind. He would not, he knew it like he knew his name was Castiel. Although Dean was just as stubborn, Castiel knew the day would come when Dean would realise that Castiel meant every word he said.  
They sat in silence for a very long time. It could have been twenty minutes, maybe an hour. They enjoyed the view, laughing and pointing things out, sometimes doing nothing more than meeting each other’s eye and smiling. Other times, Castiel felt Dean’s gaze resting on him, and despite knowing he was watching, he did nothing to deter or distract him. He didn’t look back and break the spell, or make any sudden movements. He just let Dean watch him, watch him breathing, watch him doing nothing more than exist. He knew how happy Dean was in these moments. It made little sense for such a small thing to make Dean so happy, but he was content, and at peace. And so, Castiel felt the same.  
It was only when the looks began to linger, Dean not looking back to the view out of the window at all, that Castiel paid him his full attention. He blinked at him, questioning.  
“Nothing,” Dean said, grinning, eyes down. It was the first word to break the silence, and Dean glanced back up to shrug. “I dunno, I was just thinking.”  
“What were you thinking, or would it be rude of me to ask?”  
“Uh,” Dean said, tapping two of his fingers a few times on the wood of the sill. “Just that, y’know. We could...”  
Castiel raised an eyebrow.  
“Screw. We could screw. If you wanted. Not right now, just... soon.”  
“What brought this thought on?”  
Dean smirked. “Just seeing you. You looking out at the city, your face in the sun.” He shrugged massively. “I didn’t straight away leap to sex, but it kind of... got there. You’re just really nice-looking in this light, is all.”  
Castiel smiled and tilted his head, perhaps somewhat bird-like. Dean pursed his lips, trying to hide a smile. “When you look out into the sun,” Dean said, fingers raking down one side of his head, “your eyes, they sorta... glow. It’s nice.”  
“Your eyes always glow,” Castiel said quietly. “The way I see things, the way I showed you under the water, when you saw all the fish―”  
“Wait, you see stuff like that _all the time?!_ ”  
Castiel paused. “I know what the difference is between how things really are, and how I am able to perceive them, but yes, that is how I see things, always.”  
“Wow,” Dean breathed. “Don’t you get bored of everything being beautiful?”  
Castiel laughed out loud. “Would you like to repeat that back to yourself in your head?” he suggested.  
Dean mouthed wordlessly for a second and then grinned. “Guess not, then.”  
“No.” Castiel smiled warmly, eyelids fluttering once. “Your eyes are always the colour of a peacock’s tail. Or the grass of Limn’mere in the sun. They shine almost like there is starlight inside them. They are my favourite part of you.”  
Dean looked back at him for a bit, face blank. “What if I went blind, like Pamela?”  
“Must you always think of scenarios where something precious is lost?”  
“Stuff is lost all the time, Cas. I’m serious, if I didn’t have that, what would you like instead?”  
“Your lips. Your hair, your smile, your laugh, the way you hold your legs apart when you walk. Your hands, the way you shoot a crossbow so accurately. Your drive for sex, the way you smell, the taste of your lips on mine, your voice, your singing. How you teach me things, how you are open to me teaching you just as much. Your kindness, your gratitude, the way you try to hide your better side to no avail. The way you fear things, the way you’re not afraid to overcome your fears. Your leadership skills, your ability to follow instructions.” Castiel paused for second to hum a tiny laugh. “The way you follow my instructions when we make love. Often without question. Your enjoyment of sex. The way we both enjoy the moments after sex as much as the sexual act itself.” He looked into Dean’s awed eyes, smiling. “There are a hundred thousand things I love other than your eyes. Your eyes just happen to be what always strikes me every time I see you. For obvious reasons.”  
Dean took a few seconds to register that Castiel had finished. Then he coughed a breath and smiled shyly, one half of his face drawing a little higher than the other. “That’s real sweet, Cas.”  
Dean swallowed, then looked back up to smile even wider at Castiel. “I... don’t see your eyes glowing, but they sure as hell look like you somehow, I dunno, stuffed the ocean in there. There’s a whole sky, everything blue in the world, ever. It changes when the light hits them different, sometimes it’s like the peacock, sometimes like the summer sky.” Dean huffed a deep breath, blinking and turning his head to see Castiel’s eyes from a different angle. “They’re real angel eyes, Cas. Not a fallen angel, and not derrogratry―”  
“Deroga―”  
“―Whatever. I mean they’re like, real, proper, made-by-God’s own hand kind of things.” Dean swallowed, still smiling. “Jesus, I feel like a girl right now. But... yeah, your eyes are...” he shook his head. “They’re not my favourite. I can’t pick a favourite thing. Everything. It’s everything, Cas. Every goddamn thing about you.”  
Dean put a hand over his forehead, grinning as he shook his head. “It’s really pathetic. Oh my God, I sound like such an idiot.”  
“You sound charming.”  
“Shuddup.”  
“You’re embarrassed to express your feelings, even after all this time.”  
“Old habits die hard. Real hard. I’m not a _feelings_ guy.”  
“You have more emotion than any other human I have ever met,” Castiel said.  
Dean winced. “Not helpin’.”  
Castiel frowned. “Tell me one thing. Something that is pure emotion, something you would not tell anyone else.”  
Dean looked up at him, mouth open slightly. “Sex is an emotion, right?”  
“Sex is a desire.”  
“Give me an example then, smart-ass.”  
Castiel drew in a short breath. “I feel happiness.” He lowered his head to laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest. “When I am with you, I feel endless happiness.”  
Dean looked out of the window for a long moment. He bit his lip, teeth showing. Eventually, he said, “I know it’s a desire, but it’s... it feels like an emotion too... It’s... I feel like I’d hold on for you. If we were apart, or you were trapped, or I died and had to wait for you... I’d wait. I’d wait forever.”  
Dean didn’t meet Castiel’s eyes even after he paused for a moment longer. “Scratch that. I don’t feel it. It’s not a desire, or an emotion. It’s a...” Dean swallowed, apparently with difficulty. “It’s a promise.” He inhaled as his eyes met Castiel’s. “I promise to wait for you, through life or death, never to wander or stray, or to cheat. I want nobody but you. And since the feeling seems to be mutual...” Dean looked away sharply.  
“Holy crap,” he said quietly. “Are we having a heart-to-heart here or _what?_ ”  
“I have a feeling,” Castiel said, slowly, trying to gauge what it was that he felt, “...that this was very important. That we made these promises. That we made them now, of all times.”  
“Fallen angel gut feeling?”  
Castiel nodded. “Thank you for saying all that you said.”  
Dean gulped. “You too, Cas.” He looked out across the garret, at the sunbeams falling on the dust now. The sun had moved quite some way since they’d sat down here. “Cas, can we go screw now?” He huffed out an uncomfortable laugh. “I feel weird. I need to get some guy stuff going again.”  
“By making love to another man?”  
Dean grinned. “Hey, what’s more manly than that?” He winked and leapt off the windowsill, holding his arms out to Castiel.  
Castiel shuffled to the side of the sill, legs over the edge. Dean shimmied his hands, beckoning. Castiel hesitated, but then let himself slide into Dean’s grip, his hands slipping down Castiel’s sides until they held him, pressed all the way down his body until they stood together on the floor, bodies flush to each other.  
Dean tilted his head, eyes fluttering their green gaze over Castiel’s face. His hands skimmed down Castiel’s sides again, bobbing down to grab his thighs.  
Castiel yelped as Dean lifted him and pressed him back against the wall, weight on Dean’s forearms. Dean laughed and rocked into him gently, head tilting the other way to kiss him.  
Castiel sighed against him, hands carding in Dean’s hair. It was still warm from the sun; even Dean’s face was hot.  
“You’re way heavier like this on dry land,” Dean muttered, nudging his nose into Castiel’s, barely pulling his lips away.  
“Is this how you want to make love again?” Castiel asked, whispering.  
Dean shook his head, nose knocking Castiel’s. “Just wanted to pick you up again. Kinda like you all wrapped around me.”  
“I like it too,” Castiel said, smiling. “Could I pick you up?”  
Dean’s face broke into a flickering smile, stopping and starting as thoughts ran in his mind. “Hey, you could try, but don’t be surprised when we end up lying in the dust.”  
He let Castiel slip back to the ground, whose bare feet shifted to take his own weight again. Castiel hauled Dean around to slap his back against the windowsill behind him, making him grunt. Castiel smirked and lowered himself, hands crawling around Dean’s thighs as Dean had done to him. Dean pulled in a preparatory breath, ready to wince as his ass hit the ground.  
But Castiel pulled him up and instantly pressed his hips into Dean’s ass, taking his weight along his whole body, not just on his arms. With his own heaviness pushed onto Dean, Castiel could rock into him, crotch rubbing into Dean’s trousers.  
“Huh,” Dean said, evidently impressed. “That’s... not bad. Holy - wow, it feels weird, I can’t feel the weight of half of me. Erk―“ he wriggled uncomfortably. “Nope, don’t like it, I feel helpless. Lemme down.”  
Castiel let Dean back to his feet, sighing with exertion as he stood back up. Dean heaved a breath of relief, rolling his shoulders, then shook his head. “Nice, but I think I like it better when I can keep track of where all my limbs are.”  
Castiel blinked slowly, shaking out his hands. Dean glanced at him for only a split second before lurching forward and taking him around the lower back and under the knee, sweeping him up into his arms. Castiel squealed again, head falling back as he laughed. Dean chuckled, spinning Castiel in a circle in the middle of the hallway, churning up the dust. Castiel wheezed, then giggled again as he felt the dizziness start to hit him. Dean stopped after five or six turns, when the dust got too much for them both. He put Castiel down on his own two feet, and they both sneezed once, random inhalations punctuated by laughter.  
Castiel fell back against the castle’s inside wall, gasping for breath and trying to stop his eyes from watering. His face hurt from smiling, and Dean clutched his side, barely able to laugh through his incessant panting.  
“I have not shown you any of the rooms on this floor,” Castiel said, still grinning. He coughed gently, watching dust puff away from his face.  
“You wanna go find somewhere we can screw?” Dean turned his head back a bit and looked up like he was thinking. “I’m imagining somewhere less dusty, maybe with a really old bed we can break.”  
Castiel took Dean’s hand and tugged him forward. “There are dozens of rooms on this floor, I have never looked inside them all.”  
Dean looked surprised. “In six years?” He followed Castiel as he opened the first door, peeking inside. A flurry of dust escaped, and they both jumped back, hurrying past to the next door.  
“I usually only come up here to see the view, or to sit by myself. The rooms always seemed quite uninteresting. What makes rooms interesting are the people who reside in them. That’s part of the reason I never much liked the room Meg gave me, with all the cloth. The only person there was myself, and there was nothing of my own in that room, only Meg’s possessions and designs.”  
Castiel pushed open the door to a second room, this one less dusty. Dean pulled ahead, stepping over a creaking floorboard. Castiel’s foot landed upon it and he chuckled, pulling Dean back to step on it again, making a different note.  
Dean huffed his amusement and left Castiel there while he scouted the room. “There’s a bed,” he called back from around a corner, things only just visible as none of these rooms had windows, and the only light came from behind Castiel in the doorway. Dean sneezed suddenly. “Whoa, no- nope - _ACHCHeehh_...” Dean sniffled and wheezed, then retreated. “Hell no, that mattress has been left on its own for way too long.”  
Castiel backed up, returning to the hallway. His feet touched on the dust once more, and it felt soft after pressing down on the wooden floorboard.  
“Next room?” Dean suggested, leading the way. Already they had reached the end of the first corridor of the garret, much, much further than Dean had ever gone here. They turned right, Dean admiring the corner support; a carved wooden beam, between two long windows, the lead pattern between tiny panels slightly different on this side. Here they were square diamonds, whereas before they were elongated and far slimmer diamonds.  
The sun came from the side here, so most of this corridor was much less bright than the other. It felt colder, even though the view outside was just as beautiful, heat waves still rising from the city.  
“Here,” Dean said, locating another wooden arch door. This one was half-boarded up, so Dean ducked under the chest-high barrier as he opened the door. No dust spilled out, only darkness.  
Dean took a step in and then went straight back outside. He stared at the floor, at the few inches in front of the doorway.  
“You seeing this, Cas?” he said, enraptured.  
Castiel stared at what Dean was staring at, and immediately saw what he meant. Spilling out into the dust in front of the room, was an aura of darkness. In the same manner as a light might radiate from an opened door, this room spilled a tiny extension of its shadow outward.  
“That is not possible,” Castiel said. “Light does not work in that manner. A shadow cannot be all-consuming unless there is something casting it.”  
Dean eyed the door again, hand on the ring pull, opening and shutting it and gently stirring up the dust as he tested it. As he closed it, the darkness receded back inside the room, and as he opened it, it spread out once more.  
“Is it evil, should I not be touching this?” Dean asked, looking sideways at Castiel.  
Castiel closed his eyes and probed with his mind, feeling rather like he was sniffing at it, much like a dog might. He let his eyelids flick open again as he reached a conclusion.  
“It is magical, but it is not harmful. It is merely a variation of the way reality composes itself.”  
“Wow, way to do magic-babble,” Dean muttered, curious enough that he stuck his head right back under the half-barrier, though not leaving the hallway completely. He held out a hand and waited for Castiel to take it before he went inside.  
Castiel ducked, and honestly felt like he’d been swallowed by a shadow. It felt very much like a real room; he felt a rug under his feet, where it bordered onto wood. The floorboards were polished, not dusty at all. This room was magical; it repelled the filth of the logical world.  
“You still there, Cas?” Dean asked, squeezing his hand.  
“I am,” Castiel said. “It smells like sandalwood in here.”  
“Hey, if you find a bed or something, would the magic let us screw on it?”  
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do here?” Castiel inquired, taking slow steps beside Dean, both hoping they didn’t bump into anything. “Are you not merely curious?”  
Dean shrugged, arm wavering in Castiel’s grip. “I dunno, man. When I find magic, it’s like... I get horny. I was in Meg’s room getting your perfume and all I could think about for the first two minutes was how much I wanted to screw you on her bed.”  
“That sounds incredibly inappropriate.”  
“It was. It was just a really nice roo- holy _crap_ , how the fuck is this room so big?” Dean interrupted himself, Castiel hearing the swish of cloth as he turned his head this way and that. “We should’ve bumped into the last room we were in already, there should’ve been a wall here.”  
“Your sense of direction is not excellent,” Castiel reminded him. “If I couldn’t still see the door from here, I wouldn’t believe we had really walked that far. But I admit, yes, this room is impossibly large.”  
“The Priestess’ room did this,” Dean said. “We had to leave then come back in before we found the real door.”  
“Would you like to try that?”  
Dean hesitated. “What would we find if we opened the real door? It’s gotta be something Meg’s trying to hide.”  
Castiel tugged on Dean’s hand, pulling him back to the exit. “Then that is exactly what we must find. We need to find a way to destroy her power, or at least remove it from her.”  
Dean hurried to keep up with Castiel, neither daring to let go of each other’s hands. It was pitch black in here, and if the door shut suddenly, they would both be incomparably terrified. By the time they were most of the way back, they were both running. The possibility that they could be trapped in here, in an endless blackness... it was―  
“Wait.” Dean stopped suddenly. “Cas, stop. Right now.”  
“What is it?” Castiel asked, standing so close to Dean that he felt his thudding heartbeat.  
“You said it smelled like sandalwood.”  
“It does.”  
“Yeah, I know it does.” Dean’s breathing slowed audibly as he thought, hard. “Magical rooms don’t smell of anything.”  
“But we know this room is magical, the shadow―”  
“Magical, yes - but a projection room, no. This is a real room. It’s got magic in it, but it’s a solid, actual, friggin’ real-as-you-or-me kinda real.”  
“Then...”  
“There might be something in here. Protected by magic, but... just not by a projection. I dunno. We should look for it.”  
“Should we split up?”  
“Fuck no. Don’t let go of my hand, I don’t trust this place a butt-lick.”  
Castiel snorted, and Dean bumped him on the shoulder, humming a smiling note back.  
“Maybe... close your eyes. Poke around with your mojo.”  
Castiel did so, shushing Dean so he could listen. He heard nothing, but felt it was easier to concentrate in silence. The beat of Dean’s heart was steady and reassuring, and, leading Dean, Castiel pulled the other way, in the opposite direction to the one they had walked the first time.  
This time, they went farther away from the door so it stayed a rectangle, not growing thinner as they walked at a right-angle to it. The light from it became smaller the further they went; this room was definitely made of and held by magic. By all rights, they should be ten feet off the side of the castle by now, falling to their deaths. Perhaps that was the point of the room, to lure unsuspecting lovers to their doom.  
“Got something?” Dean asked, voice quiet.  
Castiel hummed an affirmative sound, tugging Dean in a slightly askew direction. The light from the door vanished suddenly and Dean panicked, heartbeat flaring up. Castiel shushed him slowly. “We turned a corner, don’t panic.”  
“Wait, it’s not endless?”  
Castiel shook his head, and somehow Dean picked up on that.  
“Wh... whoa, Cas, open your eyes.”  
Castiel flicked his eyelids open so quickly he heard them click. “Oh, interesting,” he breathed.  
“What is it?”  
Castiel edged closer to the light, blue and glowing. It was like the luminescence from a candle, if the candle were the colour of ice, of the twilight and the night. “I don’t know what it is,” Castiel said, tugging Dean a few steps further forward.  
“Oh Cas, look, there!” Dean hissed, and Castiel could just about see him pointing in the dim light. It seemed so much brighter than it should, as their eyes were used to the darkness.  
Castiel’s gaze fell upon what Dean pointed at: a row of glowing objects - no, two rows. Ten of them, each a rounded shape like an egg or a seashell, and about the same size.  
Castiel edged closer, Dean right behind him. The lights were sitting atop a stand about the height of their waists, one row a little higher than the other. Castiel got close enough to see them properly, leaning his head down to peer at them.  
“Bottles?” Dean said, looking between the lights and Castiel’s illuminated face. “Take it they’re not some secret formula hair lotion.”  
“I doubt it,” Castiel said. “I have never seen hair lotion that glows.”  
Dean snorted, face tugging as he smiled. “They safe to touch?”  
Castiel only took a second before saying. “Yes.”  
Dean didn’t want to be the first to reach out a hand, either way. “You sure?”  
Castiel nodded, raising delicate fingers to brush at the glass-ribbed pattern of the closest bottle. He gasped as he touched it, feeling his eyes actually glowing.  
Dean started, squeezing his hand, hard. “Cas, what’s - what’s―”  
“They are like... tingles.”  
Dean blinked, looking at the little bottles. “Bottled orgasms?”  
It was Castiel’s turn to laugh. “I am afraid not, although that would be a good idea. Our perfume probably came quite close to that.”  
Dean and Castiel looked at each other and had a moment of silence for the perfume, such a scent that might never be found upon the Earth again. Castiel hoped that one day Cassie could remake it, for he longed to breathe it in again.  
Dean sighed heavily and looked at the bottles once more. Both he and Castiel were leaning a hand on their knees as they stayed half-bent forward to study them. Each bottle was slightly different; one was a perfect circle with a groove through the middle, another shaped like a cylinder with a diamond cut into the side. One was nothing more than a jagged shard of glowing rock, but Castiel realised as he looked at it harder, that it was also a bottle, one intricately carved to look like a perfect replica of a natural creation. All of them had a cork the size of a marble in the top.  
“Touch one,” Castiel whispered to Dean. “It felt very nice.”  
Dean hesitated, but wriggled the fingers of one hand up to poke at the side of a particularly lumpen one that looked like a collection of bubbles blown into milk. As it he touched it, Dean laughed, then he shook his finger out. “Hey, that is kinda nice.”  
“What would happen if we held one?”  
“I told you,” Dean said. “Bottled orgasms.”  
“Would you like to try it?”  
Dean was an inch away from grabbing one, but held back for a moment. “Don’t let go of my hand, all right? In case something weird happens. I don’t wanna get separated.”  
“I won’t.”  
Dean wrapped his hand around a slim, polished one, fingers slipping around it easily. He hummed a happy note as he tugged it out of its container, wooden frame rattling the other bottles as it pulled free. Dean stood up straight, Castiel by his side.  
“What does it feel like?” Castiel asked.  
“Same amount of tingly feelings as just a touch, except it doesn’t stop. Mm, hm-hm. It’s nice. I could totally rub this thing on my junk.”  
Castiel let out a small laugh, reaching to touch the glass as Dean held it. Dean pushed it so they could hold it together, and Castiel enjoyed the buzz that travelled his arm, feeling very much like he’d captured a magical firefly in his hand.  
“WHOA―”  
“Did you do that?” Castiel asked hastily, not sure if he was meant to grab his trousers and pull them back off the floor.  
“No - yes, I did, I was―” Dean hyperventilated for a few seconds, pulling the bottle out of Castiel’s hand and only holding onto it by himself. “I thought to myself, I wanna screw you, and something about taking your trousers off, and―” Dean looked furiously around himself, perhaps to see if some mind-reader was sharing the room with them. “It was just a thought, Cas, I didn’t even... it wasn’t an active thought, just a whim...”  
“Remove my shirt,” Castiel said. “As an experiment.”  
Dean caught his eye in the dim light and they both grinned. Straight away, without a touch, Castiel’s shirt was halfway ridden up to his armpits, then was curling there, half-twisted around his throat. Castiel chuckled and pushed it back down.  
“As much as I would enjoy screwing you at present,” Castiel said, bending to pick up the trousers from around his ankles and stuffing himself back inside, one-handed, “I think we may have found something that transcends the need to satisfy our libidos.”  
“What the hell is this stuff?” Dean asked, holding the bottle in his palm and looking down at it, perplexed. “Bottled _magic_ orgasms, or...?”  
“Dean, I think it’s angel Grace.”  
“Angel... _Grace?!_ ”  
“As in, the source of angel power.”  
“And... the source of Meg’s power.”  
“Yes.” Castiel dragged in a thoughtful breath. “I don’t think any of these are my own Grace, however. So these are not helpful in the sense that I cannot remove it from her grasp.”  
“But you know what you’re looking for now, right? A small blue bottle, with some tingly creepy glowy stuff in it.”  
“Yes.” Castiel looked harder at the Grace in Dean’s hand, then at the bottles on the shelf. “I think I can see which bottle belongs to each fallen angel,” he said, enthralled.  
“What, really?” Dean leaned down close, face pale in the glow. “Which one’s Gabriel? I feel like I should stick him in my breeches and jump around just to piss him off.”  
Castiel glanced quickly at Dean, wondering if he was serious, then decided Gabriel would find it hilarious either way. He reached a hand to pick up a bottle as round as it was smooth, clear and pure and only detailed by a river of swirling glass that twisted in spirals through the middle.  
“This is Gabriel,” Castiel said.  
“What’s with the confused voice?”  
Castiel licked his lips, looking at the bottle. “It’s... almost empty. There are only a few drops of Grace inside.”  
“Did it get spilled?”  
Castiel shook his head. “Gabriel... he uses more magic than the other angels, doesn’t he?”  
Dean scoffed. “Oh yeah, way more. Anna comes in maybe a close second, but that’s only ‘cause she keeps doing these awesome forcefield things, she doesn’t do them often but they zap a ton of her power.”  
“It tires her?”  
Dean shook his head. “Nah, but she says she feels it, or something. Angel gut feelings, I guess. What tires you all out so much is the healing,” Dean sighed. “I owe Anna my life, like, five times. I haven’t even got that many ways to save her life, she barely gets in trouble.”  
“Then,” Castiel said, pulling another vial from the stand, “this one is Anna.”  
Dean put the first vial back where he found it, his only free hand taking Anna’s bottle.  
This was the one with a circle, and the groove down the middle, like a lengthened oval. It dipped nicely under Dean’s thumb, unbelievably smooth to the touch. Dean had never felt better-crafted glass.  
“Wow, these things are nice,” Dean muttered, still sliding his thumb over the vial’s edge.  
“They must be made of something very special, I don’t think normal glass could hold such... raw energy,” Castiel added, frowning slightly. “Something magical.”  
Dean glanced at him, then to the bottle in his hand. He pushed his thumb over the cork of Anna’s bottle, then paused. “Do you think it’s a bad idea to open one?”  
Castiel inhaled a silent breath, eyes widening. “Don’t. Don’t do it, I have no idea what might happen. Anna could die, or...” he shook his head. “I really don’t know. We are dealing with something that aside from Meg, no human has ever encountered.”  
Dean turned the glass this way and that with his hand, watching the glowing liquid turn with it. It was slightly thicker than water, and clung to the edge of the glass on the inside until the tension broke, and the thin luminescence ran back to join the rest. He blinked. “How do you know that Meg is the only human who knows about this stuff?”  
“When Meg found us, after we fell from Heaven, as I told you - we angels were all one being. I don’t know how she knew we would be there, nor why she was the only person who rode out to meet us. We all recall the moment she separated us, she must have put our remaining Grace in the bottles, after she poured us into vessels.”  
“So if she had your Grace, Cas... she can do stuff like control things with her mind?”  
“She can do a lot more than that.”  
“But she’d gotta be holding the bottle, right? So it’s on her body somewhere?”  
Castiel blinked a few times, mouth opening. “That would... yes, that makes sense.” He paused for a while as Dean watched him, thinking hard. Castiel lowered his head, sighing gently. “My Grace was the only one that did not have fragments of the other angels, I think. When she scooped us up, I was the purest. Which is why...”  
Castiel shuddered, eyes closing. “That is why, my bottle, wherever she may keep it, gives her so much more power than the others would. I think that is why she hides the others, she has no need for them.”  
“There isn’t one for Lucifer,” Dean said, looking over the bottles. “His would be empty.”  
Castiel saw that this was indeed true, as there were exactly ten bottles - Anael, Balthazar, Cupid, Gabriel, Hastur, Inias, Rachel, Raphael, Virgil, and lastly, Uriel.  
Twelve angels in total, including Lucifer, who had no Grace remaining, and Castiel, who must surely have a near-full bottle. The others were filled to a little less than halfway; Cupid’s was the lowest after Gabriel’s and Anna’s bottles. Healing may not tire him, but it still used his power.  
“We can’t let our friends continue to use their mojo,” Castiel said, his face drawn. “They would all... become...” Castiel stopped to take in an ice-cold breath, thoughts chewing through him.  
“Dean,” he uttered, tugging Dean’s hand, “If we angels use all our power, we might become human.”  
Dean froze beside him. “You’re not thinking... If you used your power, you’d be mortal?”  
Castiel nodded furiously. “Yes! Yes, I could be―” He laughed, joy coursing through him. “I could be human, I could live a mortal life with you.” He met Dean’s eyes and he knew Dean saw how happy he looked. Castiel couldn’t help but laugh again gently. “I could be with you.”  
Dean mouthed for a second and then grinned, patting a warm hand on Castiel’s face, still holding Anna’s vial in it. He stroked his fingers down Castiel’s cheek, head shaking gently. “Awesome.”  
Castiel nodded, twisting his head to kiss Dean’s fingers briefly. “We need to ask somebody about this, of course,” Castiel whispered, throat tight from excitement. “Maybe Death, he knows everything... Gabriel is very adept at knowing things about magic, he somehow pulls facts out the air, like―”  
“Miles?”  
“―what?”  
Dean blinked up at him, nodding his nose to the wooden bottle frame. “It say ‘Miles’.”  
Castiel leaned to see what Dean was pointing at, having set Anna’s bottle back in its place in the frame. Dean’s finger rested on an engraved word at the side. Castiel held up Gabriel’s Grace to use the light to see by; it was indeed engraved with a word, in tiny, neat letters: Miles.  
“What does it mean?”  
Dean shrugged a shoulder. “I think it might be code or something.”  
“Or the maker,” Castiel said. “The maker of the glass bottles.”  
Dean thought for a minute, straightening up and putting his free hand in the small of his back, stretching, as they’d been bent over for some time. “I know a glassmaker, but her name is Charlie Bradbury, not Miles.”  
“She may know someone.”  
Dean sniffed. “Guess it’s a start. What do we want them to tell us, anyway?”  
Castiel picked up Anna’s Grace again in the same hand that held Gabriel’s, then handed it to Dean. “Maybe if we tell them what we found, they might tell us something.”  
Dean snorted. “Yeah, or kill us. Nobody was meant to find this crap.”  
Castiel looked down at the bottle in his hand. They really were intricate pieces of artwork, and that fact alone made him feel certain that ‘Miles’ was the artist, claiming their work. “We should go anyway. We have a lead, we should take it.” He tugged Dean backwards a slight, keen to leave.  
“Wh- what, we’re leaving right now?”  
“You’re not desperate to find a way to stop Meg?”  
“Yeah, but... right now?”  
“May we at least discuss this once we are outside this room?”  
Dean still seemed hesitant, and Castiel felt a twitch on his trouser belt, and realised that was a hint. “You wish to make love _now?_ ” Castiel despaired. “Here?”  
Dean nodded, just visible in the gloom of the Grace in his hand. He followed Castiel’s insistent tugging anyway, but reluctantly. “Magic makes me horny, Cas. Plus, I’m just naturally horny. And we just found telekun... telek’nn... telkinetick?”  
“Telekinetic, Dean. The ability to move things with a thought.”  
“We just found ten of that crap. You don’t see the obvious erotic value in that? Come on, man, I could jerk you off from the other side of the room, what’s not awesome about that?”  
Castiel chuckled, leading Dean around the corner and heading for the square of light that was the door, a long way away, barely a quarter-inch high from where they were now.  
“I see the value, Dean, but do you also not see the value of immediate information gathering?”  
“...Is this about what Death said, about us not having long?”  
Castiel swallowed. He had not forgotten about that, no matter how much he’d tried to. Apparently Dean had not either. “Time may be of the essence.”  
“Then screwing comes into that category as well,” Dean grinned, walking ahead of Castiel now he could see the exit easily. “If we haven’t got long, we should be doing nothing but fucking,” he said, stepping in front of Castiel and pushing right up in his personal space, breath hot on his face. “We should be fucking right now, Cas.”  
Castiel hummed an amused note and stepped around Dean, shaking his head. “We can enjoy a long night of lovemaking tonight, once we are somewhere safe.”  
“Oh, come on, this is safe,” Dean complained, taking Castiel by the back of the hip, kissing his neck. Castiel turned his head to let Dean run a heated line up to the back of his ear, but then pulled away.  
“Last time we were this close to the door, we were both scared. Now you’re not. You changed your mind very quickly.”  
“Still holding your hand, aren’t I?”  
Castiel paused, his slow step faltering and stuttering for a moment. “Not as tightly. Dean, you’re still scared, so why are you relaxing?”  
Dean shrugged, the light in his hand drifting upward as he moved it. “I’m really fucking horny, Cas. Come on, just a blowjob―”  
“Dean.” Castiel tried to put his hand over Dean’s mouth as he kept talking, suggesting a multitude of sexual acts they could try.  
“―maybe I just hold you, right, and you kinda hold your leg up―”  
“Dean, we have to leave. Now. The magic is affecting you.” He started pulled Dean faster to the door, Dean complaining all the way.  
“―wonder if jizz glows in the dark in these angel light things, we should try that, we could stick one―”  
Castiel hurtled for the exit, hand clamped around Dean’s. While he would love to take Dean up on every single one of his offers, he was troubled by how Dean had grown more and more susceptible to the room’s power as they’d lingered. If he had not been holding Castiel’s hand, Castiel assumed Dean would have somehow been lost to its magic. This room may not have been evil, but it was still dangerous.  
Castiel ducked through the half-boarded door when he reached it, running onto the layer of dust with his head down. Dean was not as lucky, and was dragged into the board with a thud.  
“Ow,” Dean said, interrupting his own run-on lists of filthy acts. Castiel pulled him the rest of the way under the door, smiling as Dean emerged with a sore nose.  
Castiel raised a hand and touched Dean’s face, watching as the soreness vanished completely.  
Dean rolled his eyes back, sighing, “Oh my God, I feel so weird out here. Not so horny, though. Ugh, daylight.” Dean glanced at the windows and hissed like a cat, squinting. Then he paused. “Wait, wasn’t it, like, midday?”  
Castiel turned quickly to see that it was indeed mid-afternoon, the sun having shifted a good quarter of the sky while they’d spent only twenty minutes or so inside the room. Something about that fact was terrifying. He huffed and turned back to Dean, raking his gaze over his face, checking if they’d aged at all. No, Dean looked the same as he had when they’d left the hallway last.  
“Freaky-ass magic,” Dean sighed, perturbed. “Couldn’t Meg just keep the creepy magic bottles in a locked box somewhere?”  
Castiel looked at the Grace bottle in his own hand, seeing how it looked far less magical in daylight. It was still beautifully detailed, but the liquid inside looked very much like water.  
Castiel looked back to Dean, shaking his head slightly. “We should leave, I want to find answers.”  
Dean stared back for a few long seconds, then nodded. He turned back to close the door to the magic room, hand still in Castiel’s. They both looked at their hands, locked together between the webs of their fingers. They met each other’s eye, then headed for the exit of the garret, hands still joined.  
~  
Castiel wrapped the travelling cloak back around him as soon as they made it outside, tugging at the cloak’s tie so it hung loose over his shoulders. He liked how graceful it made him feel, somehow quite grown-up, in a way. He didn’t want to say that out loud, not to Dean, as he didn’t want to sound like he still felt like a child. But he did, he always did. He felt small in the world.  
Only with Dean did he feel like he was worth something, because Dean had long ago stopped looking down on him, as everyone else did. Then again, Castiel wasn’t even certain Dean ever _had_ thought Castiel was less than him.  
Gabriel certainly did, even if he never meant to. Despite there being no age difference between them, Gabriel saw Castiel as a younger brother.  
Cupid cared for Castiel like he was somehow less capable than anyone else - Castiel complained about it, but they both knew how out of his depth Castiel felt when he tried to do things himself. Castiel often felt that if he ever had a mother, Cupid would be the closest he had to that.  
Obviously, Death found everyone to be lesser than himself. He was kind about it, but there was no denying that it was impossible to call Death an equal.  
With Dean, Castiel was his own person. He was free, he could make his own choices, and had the space to work things out for himself. Granted, he had the same with his other friends, but there was always a smallness about that space.  
Dean didn’t think twice about seeing Castiel as an equal. It was automatic for him. Castiel loved him for that, just another thing on an endless list of things.  
They crossed courtyards, Dean heading for the Guard training yard. It was Saturday, and a session should still be in progress. There was always meant to be a session in the afternoon, but Dean had missed almost all of them since gaining his position as Captain.  
Dean stopped at the last corner, in the tiny outside room with the arch that led through to the yard. Castiel could hear the synchronised steps of maybe thirty or more people, and a determined group shout as they moved their swords as one. Dean put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and stopped him from going through.  
Dean’s eyes skimmed the hanging vines above them. “All right, I’m gonna get Charlie out, talk to her. Wait here, just in case you’re not still invisible.”  
He left Castiel leaning on the side wall, straining his neck to see through the arch. Dean moved swiftly across the court, dark clothes becoming covered very slightly by the thin cloud of dust he kicked up behind him as he walked. The Guard was assembled, all thirty-five of them. Castiel was impressed, since that full number had only ever been reached once before. Death’s magical control over today’s session was working well.  
Dean stepped up to Gordon’s side awkwardly, hands not sure what they were doing. One flew to his sword hilt, the other tickling at the back of of his own neck, brushing his hair upwards. Gordon didn’t stop the session, only shouted a command and had the entire group take a simultaneous step left, stomping hard and making the ground thud.  
Dean said a few words to Gordon, who slapped Dean on the shoulder in response, then shouted to someone in the crowd. Bright red hair bobbed up from somewhere on the edge, scampering around the lines of people and their extended swords as they shouted together again. Gordon nodded his head to Dean, and Charlie shrunk back, intimidated.  
Dean beckoned her forward, then pointed to Castiel, mouth moving. Castiel leaned out and waved, but recognised that Charlie didn’t see him at all. Charlie hesitated, looking up into Dean’s face and sheathing her sword as she spoke. Dean paused then nodded. As Charlie ran back into the crowd, Dean started walking back to Castiel.  
He straightened up, smiling as Dean brushed a vine from the side of his face as he entered.  
“Did you ask her about ‘Miles’?” Castiel asked.  
“Said I had some questions for her, mentioned Miles, then she said she wanted to bring―”  
“Rat,” Castiel said in slight surprise. Dean turned to look, seeing the dark-haired boy trailing the young woman, her hand clasped lightly around his pale wrist. He did look very much like a younger, skinnier Castiel, but with brown eyes.  
“Captain?” Charlie asked, eyes jumping to where Castiel stood, but not focusing on him.  
Dean glanced to Castiel and blinked, then realised. “Oh, right.” He turned back to the teenagers, pointing at the invisible Castiel. “Imaginary friend.” He smirked, and both Charlie and Rat smiled back.  
“Um, right,” Dean said with a hand clap, rubbing his palms together. “Charlie, how good are you at keeping secrets?”  
Charlie shrugged a shoulder, turning her gaze to Rat briefly. “I’m not big on blabbing, if that’s what you mean.”  
Dean continued, “All right, so you obviously know something about this Miles person-thing-whatever... uh, any chance you could enlighten me and my imaginary friend here?”  
Charlie’s eyes shifted to where Castiel stood again. It was not as easy to pass it off as a joke now that Dean had mentioned his ‘friend’ twice. “Sure,” she said anyway, looking back to Dean. “Have to take you to the lower town though, he’s also not big on me blabbing.”  
“He? Another...” Dean waved a vague hand at Charlie, “glass-sucker?”  
Rat snorted and wobbled on his feet beside Charlie, then met Dean’s eyes and stopped straight away.  
“Glass- _blower_ ,” Charlie corrected him, smiling warmly. “And yes, I’m his apprentice.”  
Dean nodded a few times, inhaling. “Take the horses?” he muttered to Castiel. Castiel nodded back, enjoying the look of confusion their audience gave Dean.  
Together the four of them left the dusty ground and stepped onto white flagstones as they headed for the stables. Castiel laughed quietly, scampering forward a few steps and slipping his hand into Dean’s. Dean was startled for a second, knowing there were people all around them, but met Castiel’s eyes and saw how pleased he looked, grinning back.  
“I like being invisible,” Castiel said. “I don’t think they can hear me, either.”  
Dean coughed gently, communicating agreement. Castiel swayed into him, then away again, swinging their hands in a wide arch. Dean stopped that after two swings, shaking his head as he squinted at Castiel, still grinning. He flicked his eyes to the young people behind them, who were watching Dean’s freely swinging arm with some trepidation.  
Castiel tried very hard to remain calm all the way to the stables, but found he was energised, and excited. He wanted to run around in circles and pull Dean with him, make him move in ways that would seem impossible to bystanders. Dean kept shoving him off, which probably looked just as strange.  
Charlie continually shared glances with Rat, who walked beside her, a few inches shorter than she was. He must be about fifteen years old, Charlie only a few years older. Castiel walked backwards, letting Dean pull him by the crook of his arm. Castiel watched Charlie and Rat talking amongst themselves; they were evidently good friends: they laughed and pointed things out to each other as they walked, Charlie giggling behind her hand as Rat made a quiet comment.  
Castiel knew the feeling of jealousy; this was close, but not it. The emotion he felt seemed like regret; regret that he never had that friendship when he was new to the Earth. He didn’t let the feeling settle into true sadness, as he was perfectly happy with what he had now. _Who_ he had. The presence of Dean in his current life seemed to erase every bad moment of his past.  
He turned around and stepped lightly all the way down the path to the stable, Dean’s eye on him as they both smiled. “They can take Lucifer, I’m sure he won’t mind if I persuade him,” Castiel said.  
“You’re coming on Chevy?” Dean confirmed, and Castiel nodded.  
“If you don’t mind, that is.”  
Dean laughed gently. “Why the hell would I mind?” He clapped Castiel on the shoulder, turning to meet the concerned faces of the young Guardsmen.  
“Uh,” Dean said. “You can take my friend’s horse.” He pointed them to Lucifer’s stall, who raised his head and flicked his ears as he recognised Dean’s voice.  
“Your imaginary friend has a horse?” Rat asked, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you a bit old for imaginary friends, Captain?”  
Dean flashed a grin. “No point being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes,” he said, which got an appreciative hum from Castiel, when he realised he’d repeated the fallen angel’s words from yesterday.  
“This guy’s name is Lucifer,” he added, nodding to the white stallion. Charlie looked particularly distrustful, and Castiel watched the three of them, realising that while Rat was a trained blacksmith, Charlie was not as used to horses as he was.  
“He won’t hurt you,” Castiel said gently, putting a guiding hand on Charlie’s back. She felt and heard nothing, but stepped forward, hand reaching out to pet Lucifer’s muzzle. Lucifer glared at Castiel, chewing the last of his hay annoyedly. Castiel glared defiantly back. He nodded as Dean saddled the horse up, Rat adjusting the stirrups himself.  
“You should sit at the front,” Rat said to Charlie, stepping back so she could work out how to climb up. “I’ll help you steer.”  
Dean caught Castiel’s eye and backed away, both smiling as Dean went to put Chevy’s saddle on too.  
“Rat is the youngest human I have ever met,” Castiel mentioned, stroking Chevy’s mane as Dean set her bridle in place. “He is not a child though, he’s a man. I don’t understand when that transition happens,” he said, eyes on the wall as he considered it. “It seems like such a subtle difference. Some people grow and never become the adult they had the potential to be. Others...” Castiel sighed gently, frowning, “others seem to begin their lives thrust into adulthood.”  
“Like me, you mean,” Dean said.  
Castiel nodded. “As well as myself.”  
“Yeah, well.” Dean straightened the saddle and pulled himself up, holding out a hand for Castiel to climb up behind him. “Sometimes people were never meant to be adults, but they get that anyway. I’m a crappy Captain, I was never meant to be a...” he shook his head, pausing as Castiel relaxed behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Responsibility’s not a good look on me, I just mess it up, bigtime.”  
“No, Dean, I think you’re mistaken. It was just the wrong situation, at the wrong time. If you hadn’t met me when you did, you would have made an excellent Captain.” Together they strode into the central aisle, meeting Rat and Charlie as they bantered atop Lucifer. They paid Dean little attention until he was trotting ahead, then Lucifer started to catch up, Charlie laughing.  
“You didn’t ruin anything for me, Cas,” Dean said quietly. “If I’d never met you, I’d never be Captain. Yeah. But I’d have died in that fight between me and Raphael. I’d never have backed down, and I’d have let him kill me.”  
Castiel was silent for a while. “You are stubborn, but you are not that stubborn. If your life was in danger, you would have let him win, despite the cost.”  
Dean huffed a mirthless sound, head tipping down. “No... Cas, you don’t get it.” He swallowed heavily, turning his head away from the white horse as it trotted alongside. “I... I intended to die that day. I was... I was kidding myself when I thought I had something to live for after my family died.”  
“You can’t mean that, Dean.” Castiel’s arms tightened on Dean’s middle, mouth coming to rest on his shoulder in a soft kiss.  
Dean let out a stiff sigh. “But I do. You saved my life when you met me, Cas.”  
Castiel shivered, burying his closed eyes on Dean’s shoulder and holding him tight, both unable to speak. Castiel refused to think about what might have happened if he had never jumped out of his window that day, and Dean never offered to take him to the market. Or if he had never made the sword for his new friend.  
Dean would be dead. He would have _let himself_ die. Castiel _refused_ that possibility.   
They travelled in silence for a while, maybe five or ten minutes. Castiel kept his head down, listening to the laughter from the riders beside them. Charlie took the lead once they reached the lower town, guiding their horses to wherever it was they were going.  
Castiel lifted his head as he felt the horse rise in her step: they were crossing the bridge, the same one Dean and he had crossed that first day they’d met. Castiel sat up on Chevy’s back, knees clutching Dean’s sides as he tried to see over the bridge, looking for a fish.  
“See anything, Cas?” Dean inquired, turning his head as Castiel slumped back down.  
“Nothing,” he said, kissing Dean’s neck gently. “But no matter.” He kissed again, eyes closing as he breathed out. His breath rustled the hair at the base of Dean’s skull, and Dean hummed a short note.  
Castiel eyelids flickered, feeling the tiny wave of arousal that Dean had felt. Somewhat encouraged, he turned his head and kissed the back of Dean’s ear, smiling against him.  
Dean sighed and leaned into his touch, making Castiel’s lips part against him. “If you’re gonna do it,” Dean breathed, so quiet that not even the horse passing in the other direction could hear him, “do it subtle, Cas. We got kids with us.”  
Castiel licked his lips, eyes on Dean’s jaw. “How quickly could I pleasure you, Dean?”  
Dean quirked a tiny grin. “Wanna make it a challenge?”  
“Okay,” Castiel sighed, hands spreading over Dean’s inner thighs as they were parted over the horse.  
“Get me off before we reach wherever we’re going, and without anyone noticing.”  
“What do I get if I win?”  
“Same for you on the return journey.”  
Castiel dragged open lips down the back of Dean’s neck, breath hot. “Deal.”  
Dean relaxed and let him work. Castiel drew his hands over Dean’s crotch, feeling the tightness that was there already, but not giving Dean that direct relief yet. Subtle, Dean had said. An open pair of trousers was not subtle.  
Castiel dragged his fingers down Dean’s clothed thighs then back up, using only his fingernails to put pressure on the most sensitive places between his legs. One hand worked over Dean’s groin, massaging him, while the other went up to comb through his hair, raking his scalp.  
Dean whimpered, trembling gently. Both he and Castiel shot a quick glance to the white horse just in front, but were thankful to find that the others were still talking to each other, red hair bouncing just beyond Rat’s dark mop.  
Castiel pressed harder between Dean’s legs, holding him back so he didn’t push into his hand, only letting him touch. He contoured the line of Dean’s hardened cock under his fingers, and the softness underneath, between Dean’s body and the saddle. Dean leaned back against Castiel, resting some of his weight on him.  
Castiel glanced around, taking in their surroundings as his hand moved. They’d reached a part of town that Castiel had never seen before, shops and taverns either side, cobblestones long ago buried by dirt. Horse manure was piled at the sides, and flies buzzed around, one rushing noisily past Castiel’s ear. It seemed to have rained here recently, as the ground was packed damply.  
“Quick, Cas,” Dean hissed. “I think we’re almost there.”  
Castiel weighed the risks. With direct contact, combined with the thrill of the extreme exposure, Dean could come in less than a minute. If they reached their destination first, Dean would be left unsatisfied and Castiel would feel neither the pleasure of making him come, nor the returned favour later on. It seemed like he had no other option.  
He unbuttoned Dean’s trousers with both hands, Dean hissing through his teeth, eyes on the road and the horse in front. There were no other people around them right now; they were safe, or near enough.  
Dean filled Castiel’s hand easily, plump and heavy. Castiel leaned forward, trying to get Dean’s shirt to fall in front of his crotch to cover him. Dean took the hint and pulled it down, then as Castiel squeezed him, Dean reached back to grab for the travelling cloak that hung around Castiel’s shoulders.  
Dean sighed through his nose, grunting very gently. “Faster, faster,” he muttered, licking his lips. “Quick, quick, quick―”  
“You’re going to stain your shirt,” Castiel whispered, dragging a kiss on Dean’s neck once more, feeling the other man’s skin burning under his lips.  
“Clean it with magic. You’re trying to use it up, right?”  
Castiel nodded, nose nudging Dean’s shoulder. “Yes.” He traced his eyes over Dean’s profile, his head turned back a little as he panted with an open mouth. He loved seeing Dean undone like this.  
“Almost there, Cas, almost there―”  
“I see a glassmaker’s shop,” Castiel said, fingering Dean’s cockhead, the pad of his thumb sliding against his slit. “You have ten seconds to orgasm.”  
“Make me, make me―”  
“Eight seconds, Dean. Come on your shirt, now.”  
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, they’re gonna turn around, they’re gonna see―”  
“Five, four, three, tw―”  
“Oh _fuck_ ,” Dean hissed, gasping as he lurched forward a few inches, spilling over Castiel’s hand. Castiel saw a spray of white escape beyond the fabric, landing on the leather saddle. Castiel shook his hand out, unceremoniously stuffing Dean back into his trousers, not even doing up his breeches first. Dean sighed unsteadily, flushing hot as Rat turned around ahead of them, having pulled Lucifer up to the side of the shop.  
Rat glanced back to Charlie, saying something, then Charlie looked down the street and stared at Dean too.  
Dean rushed with panic in Castiel’s arms for a second, worried they could see semen on him even from so far ahead.  
“That’s not what they’re looking at, Dean,” Castiel said. “They can see _me_.”  
Dean looked up from his crotch, glancing quickly to Castiel, meeting his eyes, both of them just as startled as each other. Dean let Castiel dismount first as they reached their companions, Castiel having cleaned Dean’s shirt with nothing more than a blink.  
“Uh,” said Dean.  
“Your imaginary friend,” Rat said, eyes wide as he looked up at Castiel, who was brushing himself down, “is a real person.”  
“He’s a grown up you,” Charlie said to Rat, quietly, both in awe.  
Castiel gave a small smile. “Mere coincidence. Although it is a pleasure to meet you both.” He stuck out a hand for Rat to shake.  
Dean swung his own hand out to grab Castiel’s arm away before Rat touched him. “Whoa,” Dean said to Castiel through gritted teeth, staring pointedly at him. “Are you hands suitably clean, for, uh―”  
“I cleaned them with magic, Dean,” Castiel replied, meeting Rat’s hand in a handshake. Dean shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. Castiel took Charlie’s hand and bowed to kiss the back of it, making her face light up into a pleased smile.  
“All right, all right, you charmer,” Dean snarked at Castiel, half-winking as he met Castiel’s eyes. “We got business here.” Castiel looked down at Charlie, who tied up both horses beside a brown one that was already tethered. Dean nodded to the girl in thanks, but she was already making to head inside the shop.  
“Hey, kid, who’re we here to see?” he called after her.  
“His name’s Ash,” she said, smiling. “And he’s a genius.”  
Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance then followed the two teenagers inside, Dean holding the windowed door open for Castiel as he led the way.  
“Oh, okay, wow,” Dean said, as soon as the door was shut. The room was warm, almost uncomfortably so. The walls were a stained black wood, making the small, dark room seem even smaller. Things hung from the ceiling, glass pendants and jewellery so detailed it looked like it was made of glittering cloth. All of the sides of the room were stacked and layered with objects, shiny, colourful things that caught the light as it came through the front door’s window. There was only one candle, set into a glass sconce on the back wall behind a desk.  
There were no other people in here, only the four of them among the glittering, shimmering things. Dean stepped ahead, following Charlie as she walked through wooden aisles, running her fingers through glass chimes that tinkled in a real, musical tune.  
“See?” Charlie said faintly, turning back to the Dean and Castiel, who were still much closer to the door, “he makes magic with glass.”  
“That’s actually what we’re here about,” Dean said, eyes darting to a life-size ornamental cow that leered at him from the corner of the room. Castiel stared into its glass eyes for a while, then looked away, feeling uncomfortable. “Is that Ash guy here?”  
“Yeah,” Charlie said, extending a hand to indicate Dean should wait. “He’ll be in the furnace.”  
“Furn- wh... what?”  
Charlie grinned and left through a back archway, bead curtain tinkling behind her. Rat remained, looking very out of place. He turned his back and began to run his hands over a row of pendants, watching them all twist on their strings and hit the wood behind them.  
Castiel made an intrigued sound, taking Dean by the hand and pulling him to the wall on the left, trying to encourage him to look around while they were here. Dean mostly seemed inclined to stand around looking awkward. It wasn’t surprising really, given that the glass cow was still staring at them.  
“Look at these things, Dean,” Castiel said. “Look how perfect they all are.”  
“This stuff ain’t natural,” Dean whispered. “Nobody can make stuff this clever.”  
“Perhaps our Miles, or Ash... perhaps he is truly a genius, as Charlie told us. He is the best at his craft.”  
“Glassmakers... glass _blowers_ \- they make windows and crap, not...” Dean lifted a hand and scooped a necklace into his palm, a teardrop shape about the size of his fingertip. “Not tiny cosmos.”  
“That is wonderful, isn’t it?” Castiel ruminated, taking the pearly glass from Dean’s hand. It hung on the wall by a peg, its string made up of a chainlink of... was that glass as well? That was indeed _incredible_ workmanship.  
“Cas, this stuff is made by magic.”  
“Yes, I think you may be right,” Castiel said airily, still transfixed by the necklace in his hand. “That just makes it all the more special, don’t you think?”  
Dean frowned, looking at Castiel from right beside him. “Does it?”  
Castiel nodded, pulling the pendant further into his hand and examining it with his thumb. “That a person could have the power to create, and use it to create beauty for the enjoyment of others rather than their downfall or control.”  
Dean snorted softly. “If you wanna look at it like that, then sure, but... Magic, when it’s not from an angel? I’m not keen on it.”  
“But psychics you’re fine with?” Castiel asked, looking up from his hand to check Dean’s face. “Or Death?”  
Dean pursed his lips into an ‘o’, not sure what he wanted to say. “Well, you know, it’s all... relative. People with magic, if they’re in the castle you can... you can...”  
“Keep track of them.”  
“Yeah.” Dean nodded, then flinched. “No, that’s not what I mean―”  
“You break it, you buy it!” came a sharp male voice from the other side of the room. Dean and Castiel both whipped their heads around to hear an almighty smash from beyond where they could see.  
“Oh - oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to―” That was Rat’s voice, and Dean and Castiel walked to the front of the shop so they could see what was going on. Rat stood amidst a sea of glass particles, not sure if he was meant to move or not. Charlie looked on from beyond the newcomer, mouth agape.  
Without another thought, Castiel raised a hand and set the glass back together, floating it to settle in Rat’s grasp as he looked on, bewildered.  
“Huh, nice,” the taller man said, leaning forward over the desk at the front. He was about thirty years of age, pale, skin burned in a few places, hands dark and welted. His hair hung limply to his shoulders, shorter over his face but long like a girl’s in the back. He looked at Castiel, impressed. “Sweet mojo you got there.”  
Dean grinned and whacked Castiel’s stomach with the back of his hand, looking at him proudly.  
Castiel assumed the man before him was Ash. “My name is Castiel,” he said, stepping forward and passing Dean as he crossed to the table. He put his hands up on the side of the desk, thumbs rubbing the edge of the roughly hewn wood. “I am a fallen angel.”  
The man nodded slowly, looking Castiel up and down. “So that’s what came outta that?” An eye twitched, and he leaned back, sighing through his nose as he swung his arms. “Could be worse, could be worse.”  
“What could be worse?” Dean asked, standing beside Castiel with their shoulders touching. “Is this about ‘Miles’?”  
Ash raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth. “How’d you know about that?”  
“Told you,” Charlie said suddenly from Ash’s side, only tall enough to be level with Ash’s ear. “I think Captain Winchester’s been digging.” She wiggled her eyebrows inquisitively.  
“Not so much digging as climbing,” Castiel corrected, tapping his fingers on the desk. “We found...” he reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out Anna’s Grace vial, “ten of these.”  
Ash’s fingers twitched and wriggled their way over to meet Castiel’s hand, sliding over the glass. He sighed and closed his eyes as he touched it, enjoying a moment of pleasure. Castiel felt the tingle himself, as well.  
“Haven’t seen one of these in six blissful years,” Ash said, shaking his head, eyes still closed. “More trouble than they’re probably worth, I’ll tell you that.” He flicked his eyes open and cast them on Castiel’s face once more.  
“Then again,” Ash continued, “they must be worth a lot, to you.” He directed this to Castiel, looking at him very sternly.  
Castiel wasn’t sure where to look for a moment, under scrutiny unlike any other he’d felt before. It was much like the stare of the glass cow in the corner, but from a human face.  
“This bottle in particular is worth something to me, yes,” Castiel managed, licking his lips gently as he took it back, holding it in his hand. “Its contents belong to my sister.”  
Ash drew in another deep breath, eyes never leaving Castiel’s face. Castiel was vaguely aware of Rat staring at his back as well, and Charlie examining the bottle from the other side of the desk. Dean’s warmth at his side was reassuring, not judging him at all.  
“So I take it you _know_ , then,” Ash said, slowly. He maintained an air of mystery with his words, but Castiel thought he knew what he meant.  
“Yes, I know what the contents are.”  
“Angel Gr―”  
“Shh, Dean,” Castiel said, looking at him sharply. “We are not meant to know.”  
Dean looked back apologetically, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “Is there, uh,” he said to Ash, “anything you can give us? Info, help, anything?”  
Ash inclined his head, lips pursed out in front of him. “Hmm, depends. What’s your take on this?”  
“Take?”  
Castiel set a quieting hand on Dean’s arm, sure of what he was doing. “We intend to bring the Priestess down.”  
Charlie looked quickly between Dean and Ash, then to Rat as he joined her side. Rat stared wide-eyed at Dean, and Dean swallowed thickly.  
“What he said,” Dean agreed, nodding to Castiel. Castiel smiled at him.  
Ash hummed approvingly. “Ahh, my prodigal sons have arrived!” he declared, his arms stretched out in welcome. “Seventeen years, dudes, way too long.” He beckoned with a whole arm, calling Dean and Castiel through to the next room. Charlie held Rat back until Dean and Castiel were through the bead curtain, then they both followed.  
“But, excuse me,” Castiel said quietly, taking the lead ahead of Dean as they all descended a dark, smoky staircase. “Angels have only been on Earth for six years, what do you mean when you say seventeen?”  
Ash turned and walked down the stairs backwards, silhouette visible by the red glow that was coming from the end of the staircase, like the room below was on fire. “Angels have only had _vessels_ for six years,” Ash said. “You fell seventeen years back, it’s been a hell of a ride since then, let me tell you.”  
They emerged together into the hottest room Castiel had ever been in, filled with the stench of bitter smoke; not woodsmoke, but of melting things. It must be melted glass.  
“Death was trapped here seventeen years ago,” Castiel whispered to Dean, leaning his head closer in the red glow of the room. More loudly, he said, “I didn’t realise there had been such a time gap.”  
“Yup, that’s angel Grace for you. Gets all confused between capture and release.”  
“Release?” Castiel found a wooden bench and sat down, legs wobbly. Already he’d been given enough information to make him question everything he knew. He’d thought he was six years old, and instead, he was a whole decade older. The story Meg had given the angels had been believed by all without a thought, and it only now occurred to Castiel that every word may have been a lie.  
“Ohh,” Ash said, picking up a red-hot poker bare-handed and examining the end. Dean put his hand on his sword hilt, but Castiel touched his hip and indicated he should sit down. Dean did, if reluctantly. “Her Highness gave you the ‘official’ story, didn’t she?”  
Castiel glanced to where Charlie and Rat sat, on the bottom stair, staring into the roaring furnace in the middle of the room. “The story she told us was that we all fell into a swarm of raw energy, and she had to separate us by hand.”  
Ash set down the poker, igniting whatever was underneath into a lashing fire. He ignored it completely. “Well, that ain’t far from the truth. ‘cept it weren’t her that did it.”  
“You?” Castiel asked.  
Ash inclined his head, in some kind of respectful nod to Castiel. “Was the hardest god-damned thing I ever did try to do. Most proud of _you_ , myself.”  
Castiel frowned. “You speak as if I were a project.”  
“Oh, you were,” Ash said cheerfully. He picked up the poker and twirled it carelessly in his hand. “My best and last. You were the only one I didn’t muck up.”  
Castiel glanced to Dean, who nodded slightly in encouragement, to get him to ask questions to his heart’s content. That was what they’d come for.  
With more confidence now, he continued. “You mean that my Grace was the purest,” Castiel said, and Ash nodded.  
“Took ten years of y’all being in vases before her Highness realised you’d better serve her as people. So she had me take you all,” Ash said, directing his hands in a pouring motion, “and she had me tip you into dying lads and lassies.”  
“I was a dead man.”  
Ash shook a finger at Castiel, smiling. His eyes looked quite manic in the fiery glow. “That was my idea, proud of that one, too.”  
“Why did you―?”  
“You see, my best, a dead man cannot die again.” Castiel nodded slowly as Ash said this, then waited for him to continue: “You are the only immortal angel. The others run their Grace down - only left what’s in the vials, then they’re gone, poof, human. Live out their human lives, no magic at all.  
“You, my best, you!” Ash held his arms out happily, and Castiel realised when he said ‘my best’, he was referring to Castiel, in the way Dean would jokingly say ‘honey’. It was a term of endearment.  
“You, Cas-ti-el, you run your power down and you’re left with _infinity_. In the same way death _itself_ is infinite.”  
Castiel stopped breathing, eyes widening. “Oh... oh no. Oh no, no, no...”  
Ash squinted at Castiel’s stricken face, not sure why he wasn’t pleased. “Oh come on, it’s brilliant.”  
Castiel shook his head roughly, trying not to cry. “No, I don’t... I don’t want to live forever, I need to...” He looked to Dean, a tear spilling over his cheek. Dean looked back with a hollowness in his eyes, that Castiel knew his own gaze mirrored. “I can’t be with you forever, you’ll die and I’ll never see you again.”  
Dean took in a tiny, empty breath, not breathing at all, just his body trying to move like he was. “Oh...” Dean’s face crumpled, and he rested his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder, hand open on his back, stroking him.  
“What... what is it, what’d I do?” Ash asked, clueless. He looked to Charlie and Rat, wondering why there were two weeping men in his glassworks all of a sudden.  
“I... think,” Charlie said, very slowly, “I think they might be... life... partners.”  
Ash took in Castiel, the fallen angel barely able to see his creator through his tears, shimmering red from the firelight. “Oooohhh,” Ash said, realising.  
Castiel fought to control himself, whole body shaking as he raised his head, lip trembling. “Why did you do this to me?” he whispered, pain lacing his words like poison.  
Ash gaped wordlessly for a few seconds, then blinked. “You’re pure power, Castiel. You can do anything. Anything ever. You’re a god.”  
Castiel stood up, feeling taller than he’d ever felt before. “I am nothing of the sort. I am a man.” He looked Ash up and down, malice in his gaze trying to burn him like Ash’s fire. “You have condemned me to an immortal life filled with pain and misery and loneliness. My six years on this Earth have been spent in torture by the Priestess, and I don’t know how to escape it. I want to leave, I want to...”  
He spun to look back at Dean, “I want to leave with you, to live with you, to love you. I have the freedom to do none of these things, I can’t let you abandon a city of people. I have to hide from Meg, I have to hide from everyone. I cannot protect a city. I cannot kill Raphael. I’m not a murderer. Not even to protect the people he hurts.”  
Castiel turned back to Ash, taking in a shaky, painful breath. “It was not your fault. Forgive me for blaming you. But please, I cannot be immortal.”  
Ash shook his head. “Sorry buddy, but you’re as immortal as the stars. You’ll outlive the Earth.”  
Castiel swallowed so hard he felt like his throat was bleeding. Sadness barely described what he felt. It was endless heartbreak, and he was going to feel this until... forever.  
“Please,” Castiel whispered. “Please, no.”  
Ash sat down heavily. His creation was now beyond his control. “I’m a witch, Castiel. Aside from you or Death, I’m the most powerful thing there is.”  
Castiel felt numb suddenly. Total, complete emptiness. This was no time for sentiment, he decided. “Then... use the magic you have. Take away my emotion.”  
Behind Castiel, Dean sat up straight. “What?”  
“Take away my love for Dean. Erase it completely. Make it so we had never met. Take us back in time two weeks, anything. _Anything, so I don’t feel this_.”  
Dean caught Castiel around the middle, holding him tightly. “No... Cas, no.”  
“You’d be dead, Dean. You’d kill yourself in the fight against Raphael. I’d have no love to mourn. I’d live endlessly and never―”  
“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Ash said, calmly, no trace of humour, “but I haven’t got that sort of power. Don’t think anyone can mess with emotion or time like that. People are people. Magic is moving things, changing the world, not the inside of things. Feelings are built by people, time is a straight line. I can’t change that.”  
Castiel sank back into Dean’s hold, turning to wrap into each other’s arms.  
“Um,” Ash said, quietly. “Not sure if you want to hear the rest of what I was saying, not after that.”  
Castiel and Dean were silent, Castiel trying very hard to stop them both from feeling anything. Ash took a breath, deciding to talk anyway, perhaps to distract them.  
“Her Highness poured your Grace into vessels. Or I did, even. She took the credit so often I almost believed it myself. What remained, I made new bottles for. Little vials, made special for each angel.”  
Ash sighed heavily, hand over his face, struggling to look at Castiel as Dean stroked his hair. “You touch the bottles and you get some of the power. Castiel, your Grace was so powerful... she had me tie it up on a necklace. Goes everywhere with her. She hasn’t aged a day in six years.”  
Castiel snuffled a wet sound and pushed off Dean, trying not to be so upset. “My Grace is around her neck,” he repeated, voice thick. Ash nodded.  
“What do I do with it when I take it?” Castiel asked.  
Ash looked confused for a second, long hair drifting over his shoulders as he looked to Charlie and Rat on the stairs. “What do you mean, what do you do?”  
“There must be a way to die. There must be.”  
Ash chewed the inside of his lip. He shook his head after a moment.  
Castiel sighed, determined not to let it hurt. “If I use all my magic, what then?”  
Ash stood up, still shaking his head. “All that happens is that your Grace runs out. That’s the moment of transition, that’s the point you become immortal.”  
Castiel screwed up his eyes, trying to sort through the confusion in his head. There was too much information, too many words, too many ideas and theories and possibilities. Nobody knew anything for sure when it came to Grace, it was all power and control and infinity. Life and death and love; a headache for sure.  
“So if I refrain from using my power, like Meg wanted...”  
Ash looked very wary of his next words, but said them anyway, “If you’re gonna find a way to die, you’re gonna need some Grace still in that bottle. It’s killing me, man, seeing you say these things. You were my last, my _best_... And you fell in love?”  
Castiel looked to Dean, meeting his eye. Castiel’s face flickered into a smile, and he breathed, “Yes.”  
Ash shook his head, then punched the air slowly, fingers stretched out. “Whatever, man, I’m cool with it. You know, the dude-dude... thing. You’re an angel, you’re basically junkless.”  
Dean barked out a laugh, turning to look at Ash. “Oh, no, he has junk.” He grinned at Castiel, his teary smile shimmering in the firelight. “Some real nice junk.” Dean kissed Castiel, both of them sighing.  
“Eugh,” Rat said.  
“Shh,” Charlie hissed, whacking Rat on the side. “Shut up, it’s cute.”  
“It’s _gross_ ,” Rat complained. “Our Captain’s kissing a _boy_.”  
Dean broke the kiss suddenly and leaned to glare at Rat. “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I’m handing you back to your brother with a pretty bow in your hair and permission to take your head off.”  
Rat closed his mouth and simmered quietly.  
Castiel looked back at Dean and they both smiled, neither quite knowing why. It was just a moment to be happy, to rejoice at their present state together. Whatever the future - endless future - might bring, right now they were one.  
Castiel pulled his arms around Dean’s shoulders and held him close, wishing he didn’t know all that he knew. He wished everything could be back to how they’d felt only a few days prior, that total satisfaction of making love to Dean, not having to hide from Meg, not worrying about her trying to hurt him, not even considering that they might not ever be together. Before Andy died, before all of this mess.  
“Death will know how to help you,” Dean whispered into Castiel’s hair. “Death knows everything, right?”  
“Death cannot help me, he can barely help himself. He is a prisoner.”  
“Death has magic, Cas. Serious badass magic.”  
Castiel nodded gently. “He will want to see me anyway.” He huffed and pulled away, hand twining into Dean’s. “Thank you, Dean.”  
“For what?”  
Castiel looked at him, long and loving. “Thank you... for everything.”  
Dean squeezed his hand, giving him a weak smile. “Come on, I gotta get out of here before I cook.”  
“You’re leaving?” Castiel asked.  
“You’re not?”  
Castiel paused. He turned to Ash and asked, “Was there anything else you needed to tell us?”  
Ash shrugged, raising his hands. “Hell if I know. I don’t know why you needed me in the first place, you had almost all the facts already.” He held up a finger, “I will say though, good luck in bringing down her Majesty. Even my magic never got me close enough to stop her.”  
“You never just... stopped doing what she said?”  
Ash raised an eyebrow at Dean’s question. “If I could do that, would I really be here right now? She’s good at blackmail.”  
Dean snorted. “What, an eye-witness account of you doing a jig in a kilt? Yeah, that’s really gonna―”  
“A threat to kill my family if I didn’t.”  
“Oh.”  
Ash was sullen and withdrawn now, not looking Dean in the eye. “It didn’t stop her. Even after I was done. They’re all gone.”  
“I’m... I’m sorry,” Dean stuttered, Castiel could feel his heart aching for Ash’s loss.  
Ash met Dean’s eyes sharply. “You lost someone too.”  
“My... family.” Dean tensed beside Castiel, eyelids flickering. “Reaper Massacre.”  
Ash was silent for a long, long time, eyes down. Then he sat down on his seat and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. “I tried to stop them, I tried...”  
“Tried...?”  
Ash removed his hands, staring woefully up at Dean. “The other witches. The whole coven. It began as an obsession, these things always do. Love, they thought it was love.”  
Castiel looked between Dean and Ash, hand trying to soothe Dean as he caressed him.  
“They loved her Highness, they would do anything for her. Dickheads.” Ash huffed angrily, leaning back on his seat with his hands slapped to his knees. “She had them wipe out an entire village. They did it blindly. They had the power, so why the hell not?” Ash spoke bitterly, voice cold like ice.  
Dean almost collapsed in Castiel’s arms. “Meg ordered the Massacre?”  
Ash glanced up at Dean nodding once. “If I could kill someone, I’d kill her.”  
Castiel had no idea what to feel. There was too much. Dean knew it was too much too, they were barely coping now. Dean looked like he was about to scream.  
“Thank you, Ash. We’re...” Castiel forced himself to breathe. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving, we’re...”  
He grabbed Dean by the shirt and hauled him to the stairs; Charlie and Rat scrambled out of their way, watching as the two men stumbled together up the staircase, into the relative coolness of the room above. Castiel could breathe again up here, the daylight was natural and soothing.  
Ash, Charlie and Rat folded out into the room behind them, watching Dean and Castiel cling to each other’s clothes, breathing hard. They were forcing panic down, battling the desperation that was clawing at them both.  
They were halfway to the door before Ash called out after them, “Hold on a moment, Castiel.”  
Castiel stopped and looked back, gulping hard.  
“In your pocket.”  
Castiel hesitated, confused. He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew Anna’s Grace, but Ash shook his head. Castiel delved deeper and pulled out Gabriel’s. Again Ash shook his head. Castiel handed Dean the bottles, then put his hand in once more.  
He withdrew the teardrop-shaped pendant, shining glass as bright as a star. Ash nodded once, and Castiel lowered his head in embarrassment.  
“F-forgive me, I... I had no money...”  
“Cas?”  
Castiel turned to Dean, eyes shimmering. “All I saw when I held it in my hand was you. Your beauty, your soul.” Castiel looked down at the necklace in his hand, stroking it with his thumb. “I wanted to give you something. A gift.”  
“You... were going to steal this?”  
Castiel couldn’t look Dean in the eye, but nodded. “It was... idiotic. But it seemed silly to have you pay for your own gift.”  
“Stealing ain’t nice, Cas.”  
Castiel shivered, breath stuttering. “I only wanted to... show you... I don’t know, I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
He faltered for a moment, then unhooked the clasp at the back of the necklace. The glass chain was like a river in his hands, falling straight as he lifted it to Dean’s neck, sweeping the ends around him and attaching it at the back. Dean didn’t move as he did it, eyes on Castiel’s face.  
Castiel looked at the completed picture: Dean, radiant face lined with the day’s sorrow, black clothes like a shroud around him. Around his neck, glowing like his eyes, a teardrop. All of their pain, all of the suffering to come, and all of the suffering and loss past. Collected in a shape made of glass. Magical, wonderful, impossible glass.  
Dean touched it with his fingers, lips parted. He didn’t even need to see it to know: “It’s beautiful, Cas.”  
Castiel nodded slowly. “I don’t think I want to leave without you wearing that.”  
Dean nodded back, reaching for his pocket. “I can pay for it, how much do you want?” he asked Ash.  
Ash held out a hand to stop him. “Just a promise, dudes. Promise you’ll get to her Highness in every way I never could. Take her down from the inside out.”  
“I promise,” Castiel said immediately.  
“Whatever it takes,” Dean agreed. “She’s gonna die.”  
Castiel nodded and reached his hand for Dean’s, pulling him to the exit. The door slammed on the way out, and they stepped into early evening sunlight, fresh rain on the ground.  
“Dean,” Castiel said, eyes flicking between their horses, Dean’s eyes, and his new pendant. “Dean, I need to go somewhere, I need to escape for a while. It’s... too much.”  
“I know,” Dean whispered, ignoring a stick-thin man who stared at their clasped hands as he passed. “I know, me too.”  
“Limn’mere?” Castiel suggested. “We’re not leaving the city any more, so our farewell is void.”  
Dean nodded. “All right.”  
They both untied their horses from the pole Charlie had secured them to, and climbed up. Whenever they decided to head back, Charlie and Rat could return to the castle on the horse was tethered alongside Lucifer and Chevy.  
“I feel bad, Dean,” Castiel said. “I feel so very lost.”  
“I don’t know what’s happening any more,” Dean sighed in reply, pulling Chevrolet into the street and turning back the way they’d come. “We’re stuck, you’re stuck, we’re roped into killing someone. You’re back to not using your power, and...” Dean paused as he breathed out the last of a withheld wave of emotion, “you’re gonna live forever.”  
They moved into a trot, Lucifer shaking his head as he neighed. They pelted through the lower town, trying to burn out their anger.  
Anger at Meg - she killed all those people, and for what? There was no explanation. People lost family, friends, people they cared about.  
Anger at the endless life Castiel was to suffer. He didn’t want it. It wasn’t ungrateful not to want it, since such a thing should not even be possible. It was unnatural, and he did not deserve the title of a god.  
Anger at death. Not Capital-D Death, but the idea of the end of life. If only it never had to take Dean. Castiel and he could be together then. If it had never taken Andy, he would not now be lying in a grave, dug only this morning. If it had never taken Dean’s family, he would not feel quite so lost.  
It hurt Castiel to know that Dean had wanted death. That he had wanted to leave this Earth, never knowing what it was to love Castiel as he did now. The one thing Castiel was the most grateful for, at that moment, was Dean’s life.  
If only it didn’t have to end. If only things _never_ ended.  
They reached the part of town with the crumbled wall. Dean went ahead with only a flick of his eyes to Castiel, both of them so eager to leave, to escape these white walls. They could relax outside. Castiel knew it would be better.  
Dean slid through the wall’s gap on Chevy’s back, clopping down onto the grass on the other side and waiting for Castiel. Lucifer climbed up to the gap, got halfway through, then seemed to be stuck.  
“You okay there, Cas?” Dean called, trotting closer.  
Lucifer snorted, kicking one of his front hooves. He was not stuck at all. Castiel was.  
“Dean, I cannot get through.”  
“You caught on something?”  
“There is a forcefield. I’m... Dean - Dean, I’m trapped, I’m trapped in the city like Death is.”  
“Oh... shit,” Dean said. “Could you - could you use the power of love, maybe? Think about yourself masturbatin’ or something.”  
Castiel laughed before he could stop himself. “No,” he chuckled. “I think...” he sobered entirely, the weight of his thoughts crashing right back down. “I’m trapped, I’m completely trapped.”  
Dean leapt down off his horse, hand in his hair as he lamented. “Come here, kiss me.”  
“What?”  
“I’ll kiss you through. Come on.”  
Castiel knew it wouldn’t work but he stepped off his horse anyway, standing right at the point on the pile of rubble where he could go no further. It was not a pressure on him, nor a force - not physical, anyway. He simply could not go any further. It was like standing before a stone wall, knowing that he could not walk through it. There seemed to be no point in even trying.  
Dean scrambled to stand right in front of Castiel, face-to-face. He cupped Castiel’s jaw in his fingers and pressed their lips together, tugging him towards him, walking backwards. Castiel hit the line and stopped, their kiss breaking unexpectedly. Dean gasped slowly, very unhappily.  
“I’m going to live forever and I can never leave this city,” Castiel whispered. “When you die I’ll still be trapped here.”  
Dean shook his head and joined him inside the city walls, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s shaking shoulders. “No, no, you won’t. The most it’ll be is five-and-a-half years.”  
“Hm?”  
“Until Death’s prophecy. About a person who escapes from prison and finds his object, the one hidden in Limn’mere.”  
“Why would that be the end?”  
“Because, Cas. Weren’t you paying attention?” Dean kissed Castiel’s forehead, running hands over his hair. “When Death gets his power back, he can get Meg. Rip her up into tiny bits and scatter them all over the universe.”  
“That sounds delightful,” Castiel exhaled. He thought for a moment, hand travelling Dean’s back. “When we came back inside the city yesterday,” he said, quietly, “the feeling of impending doom I had. And the sense that Meg had used a lot of my power... That was this. It was because of this barrier.”  
“We walked straight back into it,” said Dean. “We could have taken off and left the city like we wanted.”  
“We could have,” Castiel said again, “but we didn’t. What’s done is done.” He shook Dean off, straightening his shirt for him. “We should not dwell. There is nothing we can do now.”  
Dean’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t give up, Cas. For God’s sake, don’t do it.”  
Castiel looked up at him, knowing he appeared as hopeless to Dean as he felt inside. “There is no hope. I have nothing to look forward to. Death says you and I have barely any time remaining.”  
Dean swallowed hard. “Don’t fucking let it get in the way of what we have.” He gripped Castiel hard by the shoulders, rocking him to and fro gently. “We’re going to enjoy whatever’s left. Whether it’s a few hours or a few weeks, or... I don’t think it’s gonna be much more than that.”  
Castiel nodded, head wobbling. “We should make love. Over and over and over and over and over―”  
Dean held Castiel as he collapsed against him, crying his heart out. Human emotion was new for Castiel, it was piling up inside him like it did for a child. He was a child, that was all he was. He was young and foolish and helpless, a baby left out and screaming in a storm.  
Castiel felt Dean’s strong arms cradling him, hands delicately weaving through his hair. That was Dean; sturdy and skilled, reckless and rugged, but a lover, always a lover. He would hold onto Castiel no matter how many tears fell from his eyes. When Dean himself cried, Castiel knew that Dean felt it was with all the patheticness of a child; but when it was Castiel shedding tears, Dean didn’t care. He didn’t care how lost Castiel was, nor how pathetic he looked, he would be there.  
“Dean,” Castiel sobbed, grabbing for Dean’s shirt, “Dean... Dean...” He just wanted to say it.  
“Shh,” Dean hushed, resting his cheek on Castiel’s hair. “It’s gonna get better. I don’t know... how, or when, or anything. But it’s not gonna hurt forever. It’s gonna be okay.”  
“Two weeks... two weeks ago,” Castiel sighed into him, “we didn’t know it would be like this. You were worried about a fight. I was empty, I was nothing. How can two people do this to each other, Dean?” Castiel asked, pulling away to look Dean in the eye. “How can two people make each other feel like this?”  
“Magic, Cas,” Dean grinned. “It’s people, people do that.” He kissed Castiel on the lips, ignoring the tears that fell into their mouths. “Love does that to people, Cas,” he said, so quietly that Castiel almost didn’t hear.  
The words made Castiel feel warm, and just a tiny bit uplifted. A beam of sunlight on his stormy moors.  
“Dean, I need to see Death,” Castiel said, his throat tight. “I need to tell him all of this.”  
“Okay,” Dean said, already pulling Castiel back to Lucifer, helping him up. Castiel slipped the stirrups over his feet before collapsing into the saddle, lying on his front as he pulled the travelling cloak’s hood over his head. Dean called Chevy back inside the city wall and sat on her back, taking Lucifer’s long rein in his hand and leading him back with them.  
They walked slowly, Castiel still sobbing quietly into Lucifer’s mane. He watched his own tears falling onto horse pelt, lost in the white hairs under the shade of his hood. He wasn’t even thinking any more, not about what he was upset about. Like Dean earlier, he couldn’t for the life of him stop crying. The tears just fell and fell, and with every droplet came the thought that he was purposeless and childish and worthless, even though he knew he believed otherwise. He wanted to believe something terrible, just to feel like his tears were justified.  
“We’re almost back, Cas.” Dean’s voice was soft, but determinedly reassuring. He was trying to sound like he had a clear head, but Castiel was certain his thoughts were in turmoil.  
Castiel sat up straight, letting the hood fall back. The last of his tears drained down his throat, sticky and horrible. He sniffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand.  
“I hate feeling.”  
“You and me both, Cas,” Dean said. “But that doesn’t mean I’d want it to stop.”  
Castiel thought about that for a while. “I suppose not. There are so many good things, to balance out the bad. Without the bad you’d never know true happiness.”  
Dean smirked, shooting Castiel a proud look as he pulled their horses into the stables. It was sunset now, but the sky was half-covered by rain clouds. Everything was washed out and grey, much like Castiel’s mind.  
Castiel dismounted and let Dean lead Lucifer away, handing both him and Chevy over to Colton, along with a coin. Colton glanced to Castiel and nodded, smiling weakly. Castiel was unable to smile back but returned the nod. Dean took Castiel’s arm and tugged him gently back to the castle.  
“What if someone sees me, Dean?” Castiel asked, pulling his hood up. “What would happen if Meg found me?”  
“I don’t wanna think about it,” Dean said. “It’s not gonna happen, you’re not leaving my sight. I’m staying with you until this blows over.”  
Dean led the way to the library, taking two steps at a time on the stairs. Castiel swept behind him, cloak billowing like a dark shadow following in his footsteps, haunting him.  
Castiel felt better the closer they got to the library; it was like returning home, somehow. The days he’d spent away from here in recent times were the longest he’d ever gone without visiting. He was used to spending all day, every day here. Dean had changed so much in his life.  
The blue walls led them straight to the big doors, gloomy daylight barely making it into the last staircase. They climbed and then emerged, and Castiel was relieved to see the places he loved so much, none of them touched at all since he’d been here last. Some part of him had been worried that Meg would hunt him down and destroy every place he’d ever visited, hurt anyone he’d ever talked to. Thankfully, she had apparently not checked in here.  
“Where first?” Dean asked.  
“To see Death, then I want to show you my favourite places.”  
Dean smiled and followed Castiel’s guiding hand, both of them noticing how much more comfortable Castiel seemed here. He almost felt like he could laugh again, like there wasn’t a drowning pit of misery in his stomach.  
Castiel rounded the central staircase, Dean in tow. It got darker as they reached the other side; the windows’ placement cast this whole part of the giant room into shadow.  
“Death,” Castiel sighed, pleased to see a familiar face looking up at him. Death stood up from his desk, going forward a few steps and taking Castiel’s hand between his own.  
At once, Castiel’s mind was flooded with comfort, information, and soothing thoughts. Everything he needed. Warmth and kindness and love. He let out a sigh of relief, sending a thought forward that Death should grant Dean the same benefit of touch. He opened his eyes to see Death nod once.  
Dean backed up a step as Death bore down on him, hand outstretched. But at a smile from Castiel, a real smile, Dean let Death touch him, wrapping his hand between long, bony fingers.  
A few seconds later Dean wobbled away with a gasp, overwhelmed.  
“Holy crap, that’s a kick in the nuts,” he huffed, laughing gently. He leant on Death’s desk, heaving a breath. “Clears the sinuses a bit, too, huh,” he chuckled. He sat down on the desk and tipped his head back, eyes closed.  
“Oh man,” Dean began again, “me ‘n Cas have had a bad day. Real bad.”  
“I noticed,” Death said, deep voice like cool water in Castiel’s mind. “Castiel told me all about it.”  
Dean cracked an eye open, blinking it at Castiel. “Did you tell him about the bit on the horse when you had your hands down my breeches?”  
“He didn’t, incidentally,” Death said with a smile, “but you just did. Thank you, that was a lovely image.”  
“Aw, man,” Dean sighed.  
“Castiel,” Death began, speaking with purpose, turning fully to Castiel and setting his gaze intently on his face. “I have an answer to your problem.”  
Dean snorted incredulously, shaking his head. ”Which one? I can think of about fifty.”  
Death shot Dean what could only be described as a Death-glare. “The one where your filthy fallen angel slut is immortal.”  
Dean squeaked and turned a strange shade of pink, looking very much like he wanted to crawl inside his own shirt and hide. Castiel knew he should feel embarrassed by Death’s endless knowledge of Dean and his exploits, but instead, he felt overwhelmed with hope.  
“Tell me,” Castiel demanded, slightly breathless.  
“I regret that it is only a possibility, but―”  
“Oh, _really_ , now,” Dean said suddenly, standing up. “What a surprise.”  
Castiel didn’t recognise his tone. It was bitter, yes, but there was some anger in there, and Castiel didn’t understand why Dean wanted to stop Death from talking.  
“Dean... what―?”  
“It’s just real _convenient_ , isn’t it? That there’s always someone else, someone else who has an answer - more damn information, more stories, more - _crap_. Endless, bottomless pit of _crap_.”  
“Dean, please, let Death talk.”  
“Oh, no, Castiel,” Death said, calm as ever, “let him continue. I think he just needs to get a few things out of his system.”  
“I don’t have anything to get out!” Dean shouted, hands in fists by his sides. “I’m fine. It’s you, all you magic folk, all you - Death, angels, psychics, witches, Grace-wearing bitch motherfucker murderer shitty shitty fucking... SHE KILLED THEM _ALL_ , HOW THE FUCK AM I MEANT TO―”  
Castiel took a step backwards, stunned by Dean’s outburst. He’d grabbed a book from a pile and hurled it across the room, letting it flutter apart into a cascade of loose pages; his sword was pulled from its scabbard and he slashed it once, twice, hitting it on a wooden banister, hacking thick grooves into it.  
Castiel was frozen on the spot as he and Death watched Dean take his fury out on the wooden bar, shouting nothing comprehensible. Sabbath’s blade bit into it repeatedly, thudding and whistling. Eventually the assault slowed. Dean seethed through his teeth then let his sword clatter to the floor, fingers writhing in and out of a fist.  
The library was silent for a good few seconds. Dean breathed heavily, eyes on the wall. Nobody moved, giving him a chance to settle. His metaphorical fur was on end, and as they waited, it began to lie flat. He blinked, tipping his head down, then swallowed heavily, skin of his neck pulling tight against his throat. He shook his head gently, trying and failing to look up and meet Castiel’s eyes.  
Castiel went forward with an outstretched hand, fingers brushing Dean’s sleeve then wrapping a hand over his elbow, squeezing.  
Dean sighed, frowning. “‘m sorry,” he whispered.  
Castiel said nothing, but nodded, stepping closer and resting his other hand on Dean’s collarbone. Dean met his eyes then, a little bloodshot, green irises somehow duller than before.  
“As I was saying,” Death continued, as if he’d never been interrupted, “the answer to your immortality lies with my own power, as I happen to be Death, and in being Death, I have what you might call, a certain sway over this manner of thing.”  
“What do I have to do?” Castiel asked, voice flat. He couldn’t look away from Dean, hands still on his arm and shoulder. Dean breathed slowly now, calmed by the touch.  
“Do? Oh, there is not much you can _do_ , Castiel. In fact I’m fairly certain you’re better off if you don’t do anything at all.”  
Castiel glanced quickly to Death then back. “Not use my power?”  
“Well, there is that, yes.” Death stepped closer to Castiel and Dean, his silhouette quite daunting in the corner of Castiel’s eye. The sun was already below the horizon, but there was a dim glow still creeping across the room.  
“I am afraid,” Death said, “that I cannot do anything for you until my object is returned.”  
“But that’s―” Dean said suddenly, then coughed, then started again. “But that’s five-and-a-half years away.”  
“That’s nothing compared to eternity, Dean,” Castiel replied, eyes on Dean’s lips. “Five years here is bearable, I’ll be with you.”  
“That is the other thing,” Death said, tone cooler now, almost like a warning. “Perhaps I should not tell you...”  
“Tell us,” Dean said, head turning sharply to Death. ”I’m sick of people knowing things and not giving us the whole story.”  
“You will not like it.”  
“Tough for us, then,” Dean said. Castiel’s grip on him tightened, but he did not disagree.  
Death took a breath, bracing himself to share something he was clearly not happy knowing. “The two of you only have one day.”  
They both stilled for a moment. “One day until what?”  
“I will not tell you, I don’t wish to ruin the time you have remaining.”  
“Are we gonna... are we gonna die?” Dean gulped, looking between Castiel and Death.  
“Neither of you are facing death,” Death said. “but my prophecy is going to come to pass.”  
“Which one?”  
Castiel already knew. “You are the day... while I am the night.”  
Dean shoved Castiel away, breathing hard again. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He returned Death’s chilling glare as he opened his mouth to speak. “No - no, don’t give me more riddles, no more goddamn _vagueness_. Tell me straight.” Dean looked Death right in the eye, and spoke slowly: “Tell us - what - is going - to happen - tomorrow.”  
Castiel shook his head and signalled to prevent both men from speaking, hands held out between them. “Dean,” he said, “if Death thinks it’s a bad idea for you to know something... you take his advice. No matter how frustrated it makes you.”  
Dean tried to protest, but Castiel shook his head sternly. Dean picked up his sword from the floor, wrapping his hands around the hilt, and sulked, walking back to Death’s desk and perching against it.  
“When I have my power back, I can help you,” Death stated. “I can grant you the ability to die.”  
Castiel hung his head, his fingertips spreading over his temples. “Thank you.”  
Death pushed a gentle palm to Castiel’s shoulder, just a touch, before he slipped it away. Then he clapped his hands together once, suddenly in good spirits, “Now, I think your friends have something for you, before everything falls apart.” He turned his face to the central stairway, the entrance on the other side. He called out, loudly, “You can come in now, they’re ready.”  
Castiel glanced to Dean. “Ready for what? Who’s here?”  
“Oh, just a little something I made,” Missouri said, bustling forward with a basket in her hand. The other hand carried a lit candelabra - three tall, thin candles, each with a flickering flame at the top. As she approached, Death waved a hand and a small round table appeared out of thin air, floating its way to settle on the marble floor.  
Missouri set the candles in the middle, on top of the tablecloth that had materialised below it. She only had to open the basket before its contents flew out and landed on two terracotta plates, gleaming silver cutlery setting itself neatly beside them, upon red, embroidered serviettes.  
Dean stood up and stepped forward to Castiel's side, watching as out of the basket came a steaming hot roasted chicken, a platter of greenery around it. Heaped potatoes made their way onto a plate, along with loose stuffing, baked to perfection. Steam rose off the table like the tablecloth itself was heated.  
“What... what’s all this for?” Dean asked, swallowing wetly, then licking his lips. He blinked a few times in the seconds that nobody answered, and then he suddenly wobbled, reaching for a plush leather chair that Death had just created for him. “Oh my Go-... I haven’t eaten. I haven’t eaten all day and I didn’t even notice.” He sounded completely astounded.  
Cupid tottered around the corner with a folded pile of Castiel’s clothes in his arms, setting them on the other chair. “I may have had something to do with that,” Cupid said to Dean, smiling at him. “Magic’s not just good for cleaning God-knows-what out of hair, Deanie. Fills stomachs and empties bladders if you’re in a hurry, too.”  
Dean gaped, still slumped in his chair. “Uh. Th-thanks. I guess.”  
“What is the occasion?” Castiel inquired, hand resting on the back of Dean’s chair. “I’m assuming this is for Dean and me, but.... why?”  
Missouri stopped her pottering around the table, and walked slowly forward to cup Castiel’s chin in her warm, plump hand. “Because, honey...” she sighed, long and mournful, “it’s the last good meal you’re going to see in five years.”  
Dean looked up, severely concerned. “Seriously, does everyone know what’s going down tomorrow but us? This kinda seems like you’re withholding something behemoth-like in bigness.”  
“Oh, don’t worry,” Gabriel said suddenly, sauntering around the corner with a small bottle of wine in his hand, “they won’t tell me, either. But there’s a party, so the party’s where I’m at, behemoth-size secrets or not.”  
“It’s not your party, sweetheart,” Missouri said softly, removing the wine from Gabriel’s hand and setting it beside the plates. “You’re going to have plenty to eat in the next five years, believe me.”  
Gabriel blinked a few times then shrugged. “I can deal with that.” He conjured a pair of golden goblets and floated them to the table.  
Cupid stood back and looked on proudly, Missouri going to join him. Death smiled at Castiel and Dean, the wrinkles on his cheekbones pulled smooth. Gabriel shrugged and crossed his arms, pouting slightly.  
“Um,” Dean said. “S-... so is this, like, a date, or...?”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Those are olives, Dean.”  
Dean glanced at Castiel, standing just behind him. “Not the fruit kind of date, Cas - like a _date_ date. Where you meet a girl and you have dinner and ask her to marry you.”  
Castiel wasn’t sure what to say to that, looking up at his friends for guidance. Gabriel was smirking, and Cupid and Missouri looked very happy indeed. Death’s eyebrows were raised, only waiting for Castiel to answer.  
“I think it is our last meal.”  
“We’re not headed to the gallows, Cas. We’re not Jesus, we’re not about to die.”  
“But something... terrible, is afoot.” Castiel saw Death’s lowered eyes and that was confirmation enough. “I think our friends mean for us to enjoy the night together.”  
“Damn right we do,” Pamela said, swaying into the gathered group of onlookers with a massive smile on her face. “If you don’t like the olives, it’s Andy’s fault, he pickled them last week.”  
Castiel’s breath caught in his throat and for a moment nobody could meet anyone else’s eyes. There was a few seconds of silence, in memory of Andy Gallagher. The silence was broken by the shuffling of more feet, and quiet, slightly confused voices. Dean strained to see around the group of people, eyes landing on the four newcomers: Rat, Anna, Charlie, and Bobby.  
Dean got to his feet and looked around at the people surrounding them. This was everyone in the castle that knew officially about him and Castiel.  
“What is this, some kind of send-off?”  
“That’s what I was told,” Bobby grumbled, squinting at the people all around him. “Invite said ‘bring gift or a smile’, but I ain’t giving either.”  
Dean grinned, head tipping down as he looked across to Castiel. Castiel met his eye, both of them amused by the weird turn of events. Dean swung out a hand, wriggling his fingers for Castiel to take, which he didn’t hesitate to do.  
“I guess this is...” Dean frowned at the people ahead of him, all nine of them, “I seriously hope it ain’t goodbye, but I ain’t got a clue what we’re heading into tomorrow.”  
Castiel caught himself looking at Dean, an expression that he was suddenly conscious of how soppy it must seem to everyone else. Dean was looking back though, and they both smiled, warm in the candlelight. The sun was gone now, it was dark; just the candles and their friends.  
Dean pulled Castiel in close, and kissed him, sweetly, softly, lovingly. Their lips were gentle and caressing, tongues only tasting the tips of each other. Dean’s hand stroked Castiel’s jaw, thumb pad dragging Castiel’s lip as they pulled away.  
“Uh,” a quiet voice said, from the midst of their audience, “am... am I missing something?”  
Everyone looked to Anna, who clutched her sword in its scabbard, looking very uncomfortable indeed.  
“Is there a reason... that they’re... _kissing?_ ”  
“Nobody told Anna,” Pamela intoned, unimpressed. “We invited her and _she didn’t even know_.”  
Rat chuckled faintly, smirking at the two red-headed women who stood either side of him, Charlie and Anna. “Captain Winchester kisses boys,” he declared, rolling his eyes slightly. “It’s weird and funny but apparently it’s ‘cute’.”  
“Shut up, it is,” Charlie hissed at him, elbowing him in the side.  
“He doesn’t kiss boys,” Castiel said, lowly, eyes flicking to Dean’s perturbed face, studying his lips. “He kisses me.” He sighed and pushed his lips to Dean’s once more, pressing them hotly into each other, upper and lower lips sliding together. There was more tongue this time, and Dean’s hand found Castiel’s hip to pull him closer.  
“That’s why we’re here?” Bobby grunted. “To watch them make out?”  
Dean nudged Castiel lips away as he turned to grin at Bobby. “We could do a lot more than that, but there’s kids in the audience.”  
“I’m eighteen!” Charlie piped up, “I can watch!”  
Everyone older than eighteen laughed at that, and Rat only looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. Death looked over the humans and fallen angels fondly, and Castiel knew he was thinking how much he enjoyed the spirit of human laughter. It was a dangerously wonderful thing.  
“You’re...” Anna started, still on edge. She glanced to everyone else, then continued, “So you’re... boy... friends?”  
“Lovers,” Castiel said.  
“Mates,” Dean said.  
“Sinners,” Bobby corrected, huffing. “But I ain’t judgin’.”  
“Oh, come on,” Pamela grinned, whacking Bobby on the shoulder, “they just like a good time, it ain’t a bad thing.”  
“They’re real pretty together, huh?” Charlie whispered to Rat, and Rat harrumphed.  
“It’s not just looks they’ve got, hon,” Missouri said, wisely. “The bond they share is even more beautiful.”  
Anna shook her head then nodded. “Was I―” she swallowed, “the last to know?”  
Everyone paused for a few seconds, then Gabriel said, “Balthazar’s still outta the loop, but nobody tells him anything.”  
Anna sighed. “Everyone. Everyone knows.” She glared at Gabriel and then at Dean. “I spend all my time with you and you never even... _mention?_ ”  
Gabriel shrugged, ducking the gazes of the people around him. “I would’a thought you picked it up after you saw them cuddling half-naked when Castiel was ripped to shreds.”  
Anna drew her lips in a line, frowning desperately, “I just thought they were _friends_ , not... not...”  
“Life partners.”  
“Butt-fuck buddies.”  
“Ew, shut up, Gabe.”  
“We are more than life partners,” Castiel said, glancing to Charlie, who had said the words. “If I can find a way to end my immortality―” he looked hopefully to Death, “then I pray dearly that Dean and I can find a way to have our time together transcend our lives on Earth.”  
“That’s commitment for ya,” Gabriel grinned, leaning against Missouri as she sighed happily. “No offence, Anna, but when I get to Heaven, if that’s where I’m going, I’m taking my seventy-two virgins.”  
“No offence taken,” Anna said, voice warmer now. She smiled at her feet, Cupid’s reassuring hand patting at her back. “But... Castiel,” she added, looking up again. “That’s really what you want? You don’t want to be immortal like the rest of us?”  
Castiel started suddenly, almost gasping. “Oh - oh, I have to tell you something...” He stepped out of Dean’s arms and rummaged in his pockets, drawing out Gabriel’s and Anna’s Grace vials. “These are containers - here―” he walked around the table to hand the vials to Anna and Gabriel.  
“The liquid inside is your Grace, the source of your power. It is... limited.”  
Gabriel stared at his near-empty bottle, turning it upside-down to watch the liquid fall to the bottom, glowing almost purple in the candlelight. “That’s all the mojo I got left?”  
“I am sorry to say it, but yes.” Castiel stepped back, looking between each of his friends. “When you use up your power, you will become human.”  
“We don’t die?” Gabriel asked. Castiel shook his head and Gabriel looked very relieved.  
“I’m almost out as well,” Anna said quietly. “Shit, what did I do?”  
“Forcefields,” Dean said, striding over to behind Castiel and putting an arm around his shoulders. “They’re awesome but they eat your mojo - like I _god_ damn want to eat this food before it gets cold,” he said all at once, dropping his arm from Castiel and looking despairingly at the platters of delicious food in the candlelight.  
“In a minute, sweetie,” Missouri said gently. “First, tell Anna she’s going to be okay.”  
Castiel almost laughed. “You’re going to be okay. Anna, you’re going to be fine.”  
Anna’s shoulders slumped, nodding slowly. “Good. Thank G―”  
She was interrupted by Gabriel’s arms around her, and she leaned into him, sighing. Gabriel rocked her from foot to foot, swaying slowly.  
“Before you dig in,” Missouri said, putting a dark hand on Dean’s chest, “we all just want to pass on our love, and our good wishes.” She tugged Dean down to her height, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. “I’ll be here when you get back, honey,” she whispered just loud enough for Castiel to hear too.  
“Where are we going?” Castiel asked, but was hushed by Missouri’s hug as she moved to him, warm and strong. She shushed him again, stroking his hair down. Castiel let her hold him for a long moment, before she pulled away with tears in her eyes.  
Castiel didn’t understand at all. It was like a farewell. It was like he and Dean were leaving. But they weren’t, were they? Castiel was trapped in the city, and Dean wouldn’t leave without him. It didn’t make any sense.  
Gabriel’s arms found Castiel next, and Castiel caught a glimpse of Anna’s red hair as she hugged Dean. “I don’t know why we’re hugging, bro,” Gabriel whispered into Castiel’s ear, “but you feel it, don’t you? You feel that?”  
“The sense of approaching loss, yes,” Castiel whispered back. “I do feel it.”  
Gabriel fell back, shaking Castiel gently by the shoulder. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna get through it, all right?”  
Castiel nodded, and then was engulfed by perfumed hair, red as anything. “Hello, Anna.”  
“You could’ve told me, you ass,” she hissed.  
“We were trying not to tell anyone about Dean and me,” Castiel confessed. “Our secret may have spread much further than we’d expected, but in a more accepting world... you would have been among the very first.”  
Anna lifted her head from Castiel’s shoulder and nodded serenely. “I get it, you know, Cas. You’re both boys, it’s gotta be confusing.”  
“It’s not confusing at all,” Castiel smiled. “Dean and I... fit. Very snugly. Not only our hands, but our lower intimate parts as well.”  
Anna gaped, mouth falling open. “Okay, _wow_ , too much information. You could’ve stopped after the ‘snugly’ part.”  
“I think it’s adorable,” Charlie said, more red hair bouncing up beside Anna’s shoulder. Charlie’s was a shade brighter, and just as long and vibrant. “So you guys do... sexy stuff?”  
Castiel smiled down at the girl, intrigued by how pleased she looked. Nobody they had met before had been this actively interested. “Dean and I are frequently engaged in sexual intercou―”  
Dean slapped a hand over Castiel’s mouth, face wincing. “There’s a line, Cas. You’re toeing it.”  
Castiel licked Dean’s palm and smirked as he withdrew it sharpish. “I enjoy telling others about our sexual intimacies.”  
Dean nodded, mouth open. “Yeah, well, stop.”  
Bobby almost snorted in Castiel’s face, looking quite displeased that he even had to stand so close to Castiel again after the last time.  
Castiel blinked at him soundly. “I will not tell you about what Dean and I did on horseback earlier today,” he said.  
Bobby looked like he wanted to slap Castiel, but shook his head and tugged Dean and him together into an awkward hug instead. He patted their backs, rumbling, “Hell if I got a clue what’s going on, but this is the last hug you’re ever gettin’ from me.”  
“I will take your word for it,” Castiel said, pulling away before Bobby got too uncomfortable.  
“I don’t,” Dean grinned, slapping Bobby on the shoulder. “You’re a sucker for hugs if I ever saw one.”  
“It’s a good thing you’re used to takin’ it up the ass, ‘cause I’m about ready to shove a boot up there for you,” Bobby growled at Dean.  
Dean squeaked, raising his hands in defence, glancing quickly at everyone else who stood around, looking at him. “Whoa, no, no, I don’t―” he chuckled nervously, eyeing Gabriel and Pamela as they smirked gleefully at him. “I don’t, I don’t - uh, _Cas_ ―”  
Castiel bit the back of his lip and straightened up, enjoying Dean’s mindless flailing.  
Dean gulped hard, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. “I’m not, uh, I’m not, I’m not―” he whined, eyes closing. “Cas, _God_ , a little help here, please.”  
“I don’t understand the implication,” Castiel said, head tilting slightly. “You seem to be uncomfortable with the idea that you are submissive to me during sex.”  
Dean gasped, wringing his hands helplessly as he clenched his eyes shut.  
“Which I happen to know you e―”  
Dean slapped his hand over Castiel’s mouth again, glaring at him very forcefully. “Enough, Cas.”  
Castiel glanced past Dean’s glare to see their crowd of friends watching them and smiling. Rat looked quite confused, but Charlie frankly looked overjoyed.  
Dean lowered his hand, trying to force down his blush as he turned to look at everyone else. “Um,” he said. “Just to clear this up, I don’t take it up the ass.”  
“But you wa―” Castiel found Dean’s hand over his mouth once more, Dean rolling his eyes.  
“Shut it, Cas.”  
Dean sighed heavily and turned back, sucking in a displeased breath as he was met with several giggling faces. “Okay, last hugs, whoever wants ‘em. Then I goddamn need to eat, I’m friggin’ starving.”  
Cupid came forward to wrap Dean in his arms, pressing him into his chest and squashing him. “You have a good life, Deanie,” he said, almost tearful. “You take care of Castiel, you hear?”  
Dean stood up from the hug and looked to Castiel, who held his arms out as Pamela came forward. Dean simply couldn’t see why he would need to take care of Castiel at all, and that made Castiel smile.  
Pamela whispered to Castiel, quiet enough that nobody else heard, “Keep some oil on you, honey. Enough to last. Believe me, you’ll need it.”  
Castiel coloured slightly, not sure why she would say such a thing now of all times, but nodded anyway. He breathed in the aroma of her soft hair; it smelled like citrus. She gave him a last squeeze then fell away, sighing.  
“Hey, buddy,” Dean said awkwardly, not sure what he was meant to do when Rat approached him. Neither of them wanted to hug, and Castiel could see how uncomfortable Rat still was about Castiel’s male-ness, and the whole kissing thing. Dean waved a fist in front of Rat in a somewhat friendly manner, and Rat mirrored it, then on impulse, bumped the fist to Dean’s. Dean nodded approvingly, patting Rat on the shoulder and sending him on his way.  
“All right, now that weirdness is over,” Dean said, eyes bugging as he grinned, “um, what now?”  
“Now, honey,” Missouri said, smiling warmly, “you enjoy.”  
Castiel only had a second more to take in the sea of friendly faces before him: Cupid, in tears; Gabriel and Anna, hand-in-hand; Charlie, hand over her mouth as she tried to hide her smile, and Rat beside her; Missouri, Pamela, both looking on knowingly; Bobby, confused and unhappy but still there nevertheless - and Death, who clicked his fingers. Everyone vanished.  
“Whoa,” Dean huffed, alarmed as the room was suddenly empty apart from himself and Castiel. They both turned to look at the table of food, which was still steaming hot like no time had passed at all.  
Dean sat in his chair without hesitation, reaching for a pronged fork to serve himself some chicken. Castiel took a single step towards the table before Dean looked up and jumped to his feet all of a sudden, rushing to Castiel’s side of the table and pulling his chair back for him. He paused as he found a pile of Castiel’s clothes on it, and picked them up.  
“You, uh, wanna get out of the black? Looks good on you, but...”  
“Mourning clothes aren’t suitable for a date,” Castiel agreed, taking the clothes.  
Dean watched him take his shirt off and look around before throwing it on Death’s desk. They kept their eyes on each other as Castiel unbuttoned his trousers, and maybe he pulled them off a little slower and more teasingly than was strictly necessary.  
Dean swallowed and waited until the trousers joined the shirt, before noting, “You’re not wearing underthings.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, naked and highly contoured in the candlelight. He touched his upper thigh, smoothing fingers over the skin. “I took them off yesterday, before we went to Limn’mere to make love.” He locked his eyes to Dean’s again, smiling. “I feel better knowing how much easier it is to make me naked.”  
Dean smiled slyly, eyes still roaming Castiel’s body as Castiel went to pull on the clothes Cupid had brought. “You really like being naked, huh,” Dean muttered.  
Castiel’s vision went blue for a second as he pulled his top over his head, then he nodded. “Do you not?”  
“Only when it’s for sex or a bath.”  
Castiel tugged his trousers over his bare feet and almost tripped when he tried to watch Dean instead of concentrating on his balance. “I would walk around naked all the time if I were allowed.”  
Dean chuckled. “Maybe sometime, when we get our own place... we could. Both of us. All the time.”  
Castiel tilted his head and let Dean pull right up to him, doing his trouser buttons up for him. They were warm together, Dean’s hands heated on Castiel’s hipbones. Castiel could feel a low simmer of arousal in Dean, something he’d gotten better at picking up on.  
“We can live together?”  
Dean met Castiel’s eyes as he stepped away, nodding. “Wooden cabin in a forest someplace, big - _massive_ waterfall. Catches the morning sun, and you can sit up on the rocks and watch the sunset.” He pulled back Castiel’s chair and nodded toward it, indicating he should sit.  
Castiel sat, and Dean pushed the chair in for him. “You’ve thought about it?”  
“It was my dream, it was always what I wanted,” Dean said quietly, sitting down opposite and going straight back to helping himself to the chicken. “I mean, yeah, I wanted to travel, but then I thought... when I get old, I’m not gonna...” Dean paused, hands stilling. He licked his lips. “You know I’m lying, right?”  
Castiel nodded.  
Dean looked down at his plate, shoving one last forkful of food on top of his potatoes. “I thought I was gonna be dead by thirty, I never planned for anything.”  
“You don’t still think that,” Castiel observed, stopping his fork before he took a bite.  
Dean glanced at him and shook his head. “Gabe said I’d find someone to hold on for, to bother trying to live for.”  
“You found someone?”  
Dean laughed, eyes wrinkling at the sides. “Yeah, Cas.” He settled and looked on at Castiel warmly. “Yeah, I found someone.”  
Castiel smiled and nodded, biting into his mouthful of food. “I’m glad.”  
“I only started thinking about it a few days ago,” Dean admitted. “Though, that image there? Came up with that on the spot.”  
“It sounds perfect, anyway,” Castiel said. “I’d be honoured to share it with you.”  
Dean stopped chewing for a second to smile slowly, eyes drifting over Castiel’s face. They were rounded at the sides, somehow lost in thought. He swallowed and then kept on with his meal.  
They ate in silence for only a minute, before Castiel opened the wine, pouring himself and Dean a half-goblet each. Dean took his and swigged deeply before huffing a laugh at Castiel’s expression. They both turned their eyes down and went back to eating.  
“Dean?” Castiel said after a while.  
“Hm?” Dean replied around a small mouthful of potato.  
“Have you had a date like this before?”  
Dean set down his knife and twirled his fork in one hand. “Not in a library with another dude, but... yeah?”  
“With girls?”  
Dean nodded, not sure what Castiel was trying to get at.  
“What was the point of it, exactly?”  
Dean took in a thoughtful breath, eyes moving over the darkness of the library, moonlight just starting to edge in through the windows. “Well, when you meet a girl, you kinda... get to know her. Take her out for a meal and show off a bit, I guess. Talk, play nice.” Dean tipped his head down as he laughed, glimpsing at Castiel perhaps guiltily. “Mostly I did it to get them into bed.”  
“Did it work?”  
Dean grinned and nodded, “Yeah, they’re kind of suckers for candles, I don’t know what it is.”  
“I like candles,” Castiel said, reaching out a hand to slip a fingertip quickly through the flame in front of him. “But I don’t think they’re an aphrodisiac.”  
Dean wiped his mouth with his embroidered napkin, still grinning. “I think it was my handsome face that did it, not the candles.”  
Castiel blinked for a few seconds. “They only wanted to fornicate with you because you are attractive?”  
Dean shrugged his lip, tucking into another round of food. “That’s basically what I did as well. Hot chick, you bang her, slow and romantic, that’s... that’s basically it.”  
“None of them found your personality... alluring?”  
Dean smiled around his food, a loose fist in front of his face. “Guess they must’a, but...” he shook his head. “Just Cassie. I rarely went on a date with the same girl more than once.”  
Castiel was just now piecing together exactly what a date was. “So did our friends intend this meal for us to make love afterwards, or to have a repeat date some other time?”  
Dean gulped his food down and blinked. “I don’t think they really cared what we did after, Cas. I think they just wanted something nice for me ‘n you to share together.”  
Castiel sighed, chewing pointedly. “I would like to make love to you afterwards.”  
Dean faltered, then his face flicked into a grin again. “Sounds good.”  
“But,” Castiel said, eyes still on his food, plate half empty now, “in a rigorous manner. Not in a way that you might after a romantic date.”  
He looked up to Dean’s entranced face, his meal all but forgotten as Castiel spoke. “We should fuck in a way that accents the fact that we are both male. So we can see each other’s genitals.”  
Dean sat there with his mouth open, fork hovering above his plate. “O-... okay.”  
Castiel smiled and went back to his food. He deliberately didn’t look back at Dean, but noted that it took him almost a full minute before he could return to eating. He poured himself another goblet of wine and downed it, spluttering gently, then cleared his throat. Castiel kept on eating, trying to keep from smiling.  
Dean may have eaten quicker after Castiel had spoken, which amused Castiel. Himself, he ate even slower, enjoying the tease. Dean was tapping his foot on the marble under the table, fingers beating out a rhythm when he rested his fork beside his plate while he chewed.  
“You seem agitated,” Castiel said calmly, sipping his wine.  
Dean snorted. “Yeah.” Castiel met his eyes and Dean swallowed his mouthful before he’d chewed it properly. He coughed onto the back of his hand gently and then frowned at Castiel. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”  
“Bitch...” Castiel’s eyebrows flickered as he considered what that meant in the context. “You want to fuck me like a dog?”  
Dean choked, squeaking and having to turn away from the table to splutter, hand on the back of his chair as he tried to keep himself from falling on the floor. He wheezed at Castiel, eyes watering. “Jesus, Cas, a little warning next time.”  
Castiel smirked to himself, turning his goblet in his hands, considering Dean’s lack of control as his state of arousal heightened. Castiel found he liked the thrill of knowing he could make Dean writhe in his seat.  
“That wasn’t actually what I meant,” Dean clarified, hand out over the table as he regained some decorum, clearing his throat. “But one day... yeah, we should do that.” His eyes dropped to Castiel’s lips as he took another sip of wine. “You should be the boy dog,” Dean added.  
Castiel felt his own flush of arousal head straight downwards at Dean’s words. He loved the idea, he loved that Dean wanted him at his back, curled over him, like the male deer over the female.  
“How soon will you be finished eating?” Castiel inquired, sneaking a glance at the tablecloth that dragged over his crotch. He hadn’t even needed to raise the tablecloth to see he was beginning to strain against it.  
Dean grinned, half of his mouth still full. He swallowed. “I’m done, are you done?”  
Castiel met his eyes and nodded, once. “Yes.”  
Dean stood up quickly, grabbing his goblet and draining the last of it, head tipped back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thunked the goblet back to the table. “Where’d you wanna do it? Table?” He glanced at the round tablecloth in front of them, half a chicken and most of the meal still sitting there. “Maybe not,” he conceded, stepping out from behind it and taking Castiel’s hand in his, pulling him closer.  
“Floor?” Dean suggested, glancing at the cold marble. “Could be uncomfortable.”  
“I know where,” Castiel said, grasping Dean’s hand tightly. “I wanted to show you where I read when I’m here.”  
“Good place to screw?”  
Castiel paused on his way over to the windows, turning to look Dean in the eye. He was barely visible in the low light, the glow from the moon just highlighting his cheeks. “Very good.”  
Dean nodded and shoved Castiel gently, trying to get him to lead him there already. Castiel tugged him to a quick walk, heading directly for the bookshelf beside the aisle, the one that was lit by the window that Castiel spent so much time sitting in, watching the Guard training in the courtyard below.  
He turned off to the next aisle just as they reached it, checking that Dean could see him smiling. Dean was following blindly, eyes on his own crotch. Castiel pulled him to the bottom of a narrow staircase, only a foot or so wide. It had a wooden hand-rail, that Castiel dropped Dean’s hand to take hold of as he led him up it.  
The bookshelf was almost as tall as the ceiling, and this one in particular was wider in the middle at Castiel’s own request; Death had rearranged this entire section of the library so he could have his own space. The stairs stopped halfway up and went upward in the opposite direction, still as close to the books as ever.  
Dean whimpered at the height, and the narrow steps they had to walk on. Castiel hushed him, trying to be reassuring. “You’ll feel better when you’re at the top, there’s a lot of space.”  
As soon as they reached the top, the staircase simply cut off at the end, leading their footsteps right onto the flat surface of the bookshelf. There was more than enough room to walk; the ceiling was at least an arm’s length above their heads. From here, Castiel could see the whole library, as they were standing on part of the wheel of shelves that went around this side of the room. Dean grasped at his hand again, legs wobbling.  
“Too high, Cas, no barriers, it’s... Help―”  
“You’re perfectly safe, Dean,” Castiel said. He led Dean right to the middle of the shelf, then a little farther, closer to his window. This whole area was about twelve feet across, only lightly shaded with dust. It smelt strongly of polished wood and old books, a smell that Castiel found extremely calming.  
Their feet hit what Castiel was walking towards: a duck-down mattress, thick-piled and sunken in the middle, heavy enough that it had not moved an inch in six years. It was layered with blankets and a small assortment of feather pillows, all of which were piled around the sides, pushed there when Castiel had gotten comfortable in the middle to read. It was a big mattress, enough for the two of them to spread out side-by-side and still only just touch the edges. The fact that blankets spilled over the side just made it bigger.  
“This is my bed, when I don’t sleep in the room Meg gave me.”  
“That’s not a bed, Cas,” Dean said quietly, crouching to touch the edge of it gently, squashing at the blanket in his grip. “This is a nest.”  
Castiel kneed Dean in the back and kicked him into the middle of it with a sharp laugh, then rolled down on top of him. Castiel ground onto him, thigh between Dean’s. Dean grunted, legs falling apart easily.  
“You read here?” Dean asked, grappling for his trouser buttons.  
Castiel nodded, sitting on his haunches to rub a palm over his clothed erection. “Sometimes I masturbate.”  
Dean grinned, open-mouthed. He was only slightly easier to see up here than in the darkness; the moonlight fell against the opposite bookshelf and cast the whole area with a cool blue glow. Dean’s pale skin was luminescent, pupils dark against the whites of his eyes.  
“I want to see you better when we do this,” Castiel decided, looking around. He chanced his gaze upon the table on the other side of the library, still lit by the three candles. With a quick glance at Dean, he waved his hand and brought the candelabra flying towards the two of them, flames extinguishing as they rushed through the air.  
“You’re using mojo, Cas?” Dean said, confused. “I thought you were gonna save it, so you can...?”  
Castiel slid a hand over the candelabra to light the flames again, sighing. “I am. But given that we only have until tomorrow before something happens...” he shook his head, watching the lights, “I want to save time. And fuck you now.”  
He turned his fiercely lustful gaze to Dean, reaching to place the candles just outside his nest, scrambling the edges of it down so they all collapsed into the centre, making a thick bed of tangled blankets that Dean promptly spread out on, face down, open trousers dragging to his thighs as he humped at the cloth.  
“Mmh,” Dean muttered, hands curling in the mess of linen, silk and satin. “This is gonna be good, I can tell.”  
Castiel leaned over him, eyes moving from the back of Dean’s hair, down his finely toned back, and then over his bare ass. Then he slipped a finger between Dean’s buttocks. Dean pushed up into it, making the finger slide against his hole.  
“Is that where you want to...?” Castiel asked.  
Dean paused, then shook his head. “Don’t think I’m set for that yet,” he sighed, rubbing into Castiel’s finger still. He was obviously very keen, he loved that touch. “Next time, yeah, Cas? Next time we fuck, we fuck there.”  
Castiel pressed his finger down hard, making Dean whimper. “Yes.”  
Dean lifted his head from the blanket when Castiel’s finger pulled away. Dean licked his lips, kneeling up and taking himself in hand, tugging twice before shuffling forward to lean his face against Castiel’s. They kissed, heated; Dean’s lips seemed to be burning. He tasted of wine and their roasted meal; he was sweet and salty, enough to make Castiel’s mouth water again. Dean pulled him closer by his hair, fingers massaging him. They swallowed together, their kisses loud and smacking. Castiel sighed, licking at Dean’s lips a final time before pulling away.  
“We should be naked,” he whispered.  
Dean shrugged. “Or not.” He grinned. “You wanted to show off your junk or something, right? Why not _just_ your junk? Have that be the only part of you that’s naked.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, straining hard in his trousers. He unbuttoned the top button and felt a tiny bit of pressure relieved. Another, and another. Dean watched as Castiel let his dick rise free, straightening up and lengthening a bit.  
“No,” Castiel said, before Dean went to touch him. “We should be naked, completely naked. I want to try a way to rub.”  
“A position?” asked Dean. Castiel hesitated before nodding, but Dean was eager, already tugging off his shirt.  
Castiel followed his lead and threw his clothes off, rolling onto his back to pull his trousers loose. He really need not have put them on in the first place, he thought. Dean was naked now, just kicking off his breeches, not caring where they landed amongst the sea of fabric they were in. He still wore the teardrop necklace, bright even in the low light.  
“Now what?” Dean asked breathlessly, one hand on his balls as he massaged them. He spread his legs apart where he knelt, the other hand slipping to rub at the tender skin between his thighs. Castiel allowed them each a moment to touch and to watch, before he flicked his eyes to Dean’s and said, “Put our legs between each other, and both of us lie backwards.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes, not completely sure what he meant. “Show me?”  
Castiel moved forward, beckoning Dean closer. Dean untangled his legs from a twisted sheet, then pressed himself right up against Castiel, cocks lining up and pressing deeply into each other’s flesh. Dean grunted under his breath, not moving, but squeezing himself closer to Castiel. Castiel smirked as he took in Dean’s lips, wet and parted in the candlelight, trembling only subtly. Castiel slid a hand to cup Dean’s ass and massage it, tugging the mound into his palm, rolling it down, feeling Dean’s cock pressing a little tighter to his body as he pushed.  
“Show me,” Dean repeated, waiting for Castiel to demonstrate exactly how he wanted to fuck.  
“Lie back, but keep your body up,” Castiel instructed, watching Dean’s eyelids flicker, then Dean leaned back on his hands, still kneeling. Castiel slid a thigh between Dean’s parted ones, cock bumping at Dean’s balls. He straightened that thigh, heel pushing a fold of cloth away underneath. Now Dean was spread over his leg, and Castiel cocked the leg back again, locking their thighs.  
Dean sighed and bucked into him, just once, and Castiel took his hips in his hands, guiding and stilling. He lay back, body up, same as Dean, leaning on his hands. From here, he could see the swelling line of Dean’s cock, balls pressed into Castiel’s base, dragging on his pubic hair. Dean could see the same as he looked down, Castiel’s genitals up against his own.  
“C-can I move now?” Dean muttered, eyes jumping between their scissored legs and Castiel’s face.  
Castiel nodded breathlessly, not even having a second before Dean began to rut into him, grunting twice in succession. Castiel bucked right back, bumping and dragging balls between their bodies; it was dry and fleshy, but the friction was incredible - skin stuttered and thumped together, hot. They didn’t fit together like this at all; Castiel’s thigh was too muscular between Dean’s own, he couldn’t close his legs. Their cocks couldn’t touch properly, it felt like a tease as they hit hipbones or pressed against testicles, sometimes rubbing each other.  
Dean’s lips were drawn back over his teeth, like a silent hiss. He kept his eyes on where their bodies met, Castiel grunting quietly. Their members swayed, moving as they bumped. Flesh slapped uncomfortably - there was something raw about doing it so messily; it was inelegant, it was dirty.  
“Fuck,” Dean sighed, wriggling his hips to try and press closer. “Could you get right up against me?” he gasped quietly at Castiel, still rocking his hips.  
Castiel tried to oblige, lifting off one hand and moving his weight about so he could straighten the leg that was between Dean’s. Dean saw how it changed their pressure, and did the same; the leg between Castiel’s thighs relaxed, no longer in a kneeling position. Castiel squeezed closer, and Dean grunted, mouth open.  
They began to rut again, hips dragging and sliding arrhythmically. Castiel’s cock was pressed back onto his own hip, thrusting against Dean’s perineum. On every fifth thrust or so, Dean’s hips would move faster and they would slip, causing Dean to buck up into Castiel’s thighs, trailing a line of pre-come over his own skin.  
Dean began to moan, his jaw relaxed. Castiel watched how the sound made his throat tremble, lips shivering as he watched himself get off against Castiel. Castiel recognised how natural a moan it was; it wasn’t fabricated, it was the kind of sound that Dean just didn’t want to hold back. Pure pleasure, enjoyment. He was moaning to express what he couldn’t in words.  
Castiel was whining in response. For every guttural groan Dean let out, Castiel whimpered a reply. The quiet sounds became keening cries, and in minutes, they were both moaning and crying out in pleasure, rutting and bucking and rubbing without pause.  
They couldn’t stop, they wouldn’t slow down or move apart, or _anything_. Blatantly screaming, Dean shaking with exertion as he kept on moving his hips, skin slicker with juices now, slipping to and fro. The focus of Castiel's gaze changed as often as he thrusted: looking to Dean’s lust-blazed face, down to his chest as he breathed heavy, panting breaths; necklace jumping - then to their touching bodies, where they scissored, separating each other by legs and genitals; soft and hard together.  
Castiel loved when he pressed into muscle, it gave a little under him, but it made Dean shiver at the touch, his skin scorching hot as Castiel stuttered against him, their flesh slapping.  
“ _Auugh_ ,” Dean moaned, head falling back. “Caaas...”  
“Where... w-uh - would you like to - _uunghh_ \- _uhh_ \- c-come?” Castiel struggled to speak, but wanted to get the question out. “I h-have an _mmhh_ \- an idea―”  
“W-where?” Dean panted, Castiel wincing as he felt a throb of pleasure shoot through him, pulsing with heat.  
“Over the side - on the - _uhhh_ yes, _yes_ \- on the floor, watch it fall―” Castiel broke off to whine, long and low, arms trembling as they struggled to hold his weight still.  
Dean said nothing, only groaning like an animal and nodding weakly. Castiel could hardly bear to move away, to break their position to move to the side.  
“Now, _now_ ―” Dean hissed, almost sobbing as he cried out. “I’m close, I’m real close―”  
Castiel launched himself forward, almost collapsing over Dean as he lost his balance. Dean whined under him, limbs heavy and uncontrolled. Castiel dragged him almost upright, not making it to more than a kneel before they made their way out of the bed, crawling on hands and knees to the edge of the bookshelf.  
Castiel got there first and waved Dean closer, spreading his legs apart with one knee over the edge. “Sit between my legs,” Castiel gasped, out of breath, still shaking and bucking like they were still together.  
Dean ignored the height completely, settling against Castiel’s thigh with his back to him. He dangled both legs over the side, heels pressed into the first top shelf. Castiel shuffled himself around Dean’s body, wrapping his legs over Dean’s thighs, ankles on the tender inner part and sliding down to pull Dean’s legs apart. His cock was pressed into Dean’s lower back, grazing his spine.  
Dean was touching himself, gasping and moaning. His head fell back as he dragged in a difficult breath, Castiel’s hands coming forward to help him. Together they took Dean’s cock and pulled it, smearing pre-come over their hands, fingers tangling together. Dean cupped his hands over Castiel’s, guiding his movement. It became fast and tight, Dean regulating Castiel’s pressure. Dean gasped then whimpered, thighs clenching under Castiel’s. Castiel dropped a hand away and let it sink between Dean’s legs, playing with his balls, slickness wiped away as he dragged fingertips over Dean’s perineum. Dean moaned like Castiel had never heard him moan before, almost dizzying in its deepness and vibration against him. Castiel felt it through his chest, a wave of arousal plummeting to his groin. Another drop of pre-come pushed from his cockhead and slid over the skin of Dean’s back, barely noticed.  
“Gonna,” Dean said, struggling to swallow before he repeated, “gonna―”  
That was all he managed before he jerked forward, cock slipping in Castiel’s hand, both his and Dean’s fists clenched to Dean’s length. Dean exhaled sharply, and Castiel leaned his head over Dean’s shoulder to watch the burst of white explode from Dean, shooting two feet forward into the air, separating into droplets mid-air as it descended into the abyss of fifteen feet below.  
Dean whined as he watched the spray fall, hitting the marble floor in a pool of moonlight, so clearly illuminated that they saw the tiny splashes as it hit.  
“Ohh,” Dean groaned, still leaning heavily into Castiel’s grip.  
Castiel made a split-second decision, then pushed forward and let them both fall off the side of the bookshelf.  
Dean screeched in shock as they hurtled down; it was only a second before Castiel caught them both in a bed of air, a terrific thunderclap breaking out from them, knocking a few books loose from surrounding shelves.  
Dean cried out as they touched down on the ground gently, naked flesh lowering to the cool marble. Castiel was still curled over Dean, their legs tangled. Dean sighed, trembling under Castiel.  
Castiel kissed the back of his neck, slipping a hand out from under their bodies and trailing it down Dean’s side, barely separating himself from Dean’s back before he found his own cock and began to tug it.  
Dean rocked back into him as Castiel pulled on himself, and they moved as one, rolling and pushing to get Castiel to his peak. Dean’s weight was mostly on his hands, wet and slidey on the floor. He found his own spread of semen on the white marble and touched it with a fingertip, then dragged his whole hand through it, sighing on a gentle moan.  
“Come on the floor, Cas,” he whispered, barely even trying to turn his head. He spoke to the ground, breath fogging the sheen of it.  
“Make me,” Castiel hissed. “Make me come.”  
Dean launched Castiel off him with a backwards buck of his hips, Castiel sprawling back onto his ass, leaning on the bookshelf. He waited until Dean had turned around, all dark lines and muscle in the shadow of the moonlight. Dean beckoned him back, and Castiel scrambled to lie on top of him, straddling him with Dean’s legs pressed to his buttocks, rolling into him gently so he felt his asscheeks spreading apart.  
Dean took Castiel’s cock in hand with both palms, fingers squeezing. Castiel groaned loudly and leaned back, setting his weight on Dean’s thighs behind him. Dean turned his hands around his length, pulling him strangely; he milked him like a cow’s udder, one tug of his hand massaging, pulling upward, then overtaken by the other doing the exact same thing. He gave a half-second pause between tugs for the skin of Castiel’s cock to settle, not wanting to strain him.  
Castiel ground out a sound, completely undone. It was crude and unlayered, and it seemed to burn his throat as it escaped him.  
“Come on, Cas,” Dean whispered. “Do it again, make that noise again.”  
Castiel tried but it was gone, throat bare and shaking. “Make me come,” he begged, so far gone he couldn’t do anything but whisper. “Put me where you want, make me, make me―”  
Dean grabbed Castiel by the hips, fingers squeezing into the side of his ass, hauling him closer. He licked at his clavicle, breathing hard on his skin, air tingling in the place where Dean had left saliva. Dean growled and manhandled Castiel onto the floor, a mess of heavy limbs slapping on the marble. His knees dug into the hard stone, cold and unforgiving on his bones.  
Dean curled on top of him, bucking over his back, half-softened cock slapping between his buttocks, pushed into him by Dean’s thighs. Dean reached around and took Castiel in hand, only jerking him a few times before he stopped, loosening his hand and removing himself from Castiel’s back.  
“Where- where’d―?”  
Dean reappeared by Castiel’s side, lying on his back and sliding himself under Castiel’s body, face against his cock. Castiel looked between his legs, watching Dean take him in his mouth, feeling the wetness engulf him, heat and slickness, the slide of a wet tooth easily ignored.  
Dean grunted, a sloppy sound escaping his mouth. Castiel whimpered, using all his strength not to buck into Dean’s throat. There was no cushioning under Dean's head; his skull was right against the marble.  
“In - in your mouth?” Castiel breathed, gasping with his lips wide open. He was so close, so close now. He was burning with ice-cold pleasure, so hot that he felt like indulgence had drowned him, overtaken by a confusing sharpness.  
Dean sucked his mouth free, saliva and pre-come dripping onto his face as he turned his head away. “On the fl- the floor,” he huffed, swallowing hard. He removed his head from under Castiel’s body, a tickle of hair on Castiel’s wet, air-chilled cock.  
There was no touch for a few seconds, and Castiel felt his orgasm subsiding, dropping from the building peak. But then Dean took him in his hand again, riding it up from base to tip, so slippery with saliva - he raced straight back to his apex, gasping deeply in his raw throat.  
“Oh - _Dean_ ―”  
“Do you wanna watch it, Cas?” Dean whispered, lips on the inside of Castiel’s hips, against the V of muscle. Tongue dragged there, and Castiel whimpered again.  
He didn’t even reply, only lowered his head again to eye the upside-down Dean, face close to Castiel’s cock as he stroked him. The teardrop pendant was balanced on the floor, moving ever so slightly as Dean turned his head. He caught Castiel’s eye and gave a tired, exhilarated flash of a grin, and that was when Castiel broke. He rode over his peak and watched the lines of white fall from him, spewing over the white marble with tiny splashing sounds. Dean was transfixed, still sliding his hand over Castiel’s length, thumb interrupting the spill for a second, rubbing the liquid over Castiel’s cockhead.  
Castiel felt like it lasted hours, it just kept coming, and spreading over the floor, forming miniscule pools and splashes. He moaned like a dying animal, mouth open and calling wildly, sobbing with exertion as it finally ended.  
Dean nuzzled his hip, sighing into him. Castiel’s thighs trembled, about to collapse. Dean shoved him so he lay on his side, skin slapping on the floor. He moaned again, quiet this time, watching Dean’s darkened eyes roam over the mess he’d made on the polished marble. With a glance to Castiel, Dean lowered his head and lapped at it with his tongue, just once, tasting it. Castiel was startled for a good few seconds, Dean grinning sideways at him. Then he put his hand in it, dragging it wetly, sweeping it away from him, toward where Castiel lay. Then Dean lay down in the mess, eyes half-closed as he ground his hips downward, sighing. His skin slipped in the liquid, the parts that were skin-to-stone stuttering, unslicked and rough together.  
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathed, eyes locking to Castiel’s, almost delirious. “This is so messed up, I don’t know why I keep wanting to do this...”  
Castiel’s voice was deep and fucked-out as he said, “There is... something enticing, about watching you cover yourself...” he flicked his eyes to Dean’s hands as they began to creep onto Castiel’s skin, cold and covered in thickening semen, “in something that should not be touched like that.”  
“God, it’s so dirty,” Dean said, licking his lips. He slid a little closer to Castiel, tipping his head down to kiss him. They slipped apart with a soft noise, Dean sighing.  
Castiel said nothing, just watching Dean swallow again, blinking languidly.  
“Can we sit up at your window?” Dean asked, kneeling up before his elbows had left the floor. Castiel turned his head to look at his sill. Moonlight streamed through it like the sun did in the day, and it looked very welcoming.  
“We’re naked, we could be seen by somebody,” Castiel said.  
“Sucks to be them then, don’t it?” Dean said, heaving himself to his feet and offering a mucky hand for Castiel to take. Castiel grunted as he stood, feeling bruises and chills in odd places.  
He walked slowly to the window, taking the handle and pulling it open, an early summer night breeze blustering its way over his hair, rushing all the way down the aisle.  
Dean stood beside him, waiting for Castiel to climb up first. Castiel sat how he always sat: back against one side, feet pressed on the other. He glanced to Dean and lowered his inside leg, letting it dangle down.  
He nodded to his open legs, holding an arm out for Dean to pull himself closer. “Sit between my legs?”  
Dean smiled and took his hand, sitting his bare ass on the stone sill, shuffling back so he leant on Castiel’s chest, head resting on his shoulder. He sighed, long and relaxed, as he let his eyes slip closed.  
Castiel stroked his hair back, pressing a kiss to Dean’s head. The city was dark, only the rooftops were washed lightly with moonlight. They could see so many stars from here. Castiel recognised almost all of the constellations, though he wished he knew their stories.  
“You know,” Dean said slowly, opening his eyes and gazing up at the stars along with Castiel, “this weird sex of ours. I think this is what they call kinky,” Dean said, a grin halfway up his face.  
“Kinky?”  
“Yeah. You know, with girls, it’s just... date, maybe - then you get them up to your room, tiny bit of foreplay, maybe some feathers or something, depending... then it’s just bang, sex, edge of the bed, standing up, you on top, girl on top, whatever. It’s straightforward, it’s just mutual pleasure. You’re done, then they leave, you wash up, that’s it. You never see them again.”  
Dean turned his head a few inches then continued, “But with you it’s... there’s _positions_ , we change while we’re doing it, we move around and we tell each other what we want... and we have a thing. The jizz thing. It’s freaky-weird. It’s... yeah, it’s kinky.”  
Castiel said nothing, and Dean took a breath, then continued. “If I end up jizzing on a girl, it’s by mistake, you know?”  
This is where Dean stopped, and Castiel had to shake his head, not knowing. “Explain?”  
Dean grinned. “Well, you... usually it’s inside, but it’s not like with you, it doesn’t stay in. And you don’t wanna do that most of the time, not if you don’t want a baby.” Dean sighed. “If I get jizz on some chick’s face it’s ‘cause I missed her mouth.”  
Castiel frowned and looked down at Dean, lips pressing to the side of his head. “How can you miss, if you’re so deep in her mouth?”  
Dean laughed, head tipping onto Castiel’s shoulder, vibrating against him. “Not everyone can suck as deep as you, Cas.”  
“Oh.”  
“But it’s not a... it’s not the focus, it’s just what happens at the end. Yeah, orgasm’s what you’re working towards, but it’s not a big thing. You don’t play with it after.”  
“You like it, though,” Castiel said, quietly. “My semen.”  
Dean purred gently, squirming in pleasure ever so slightly. Castiel smiled, realising just how much Dean enjoyed talking about it. “Yeah, I do,” Dean said, voice breathy. He looked up at the stars, his eyes glimmering in the corner of Castiel’s vision. “I feel dirty when I think about it, but it’s a good dirty. I kinda feel sick, actually; it’s sort of panicky, and _wrong_. But it’s seriously fucking hot. I don’t get it - like, at all.”  
“Human pleasure makes little sense most of the time, I find,” Castiel said. He looked up at the stars too. The necklace that rested on Dean’s chest was more beautiful than even all of the stars put together, just like Dean himself. Castiel was still pleased by the way it hung on him, how it shone bright like his eyes, like his soul.  
Dean gasped suddenly, sitting up against Castiel. Castiel barked out a laugh as he saw it too: a shooting star, rushing across the sky as fast as an arrow, faster than any bird.  
“Make a wish, Cas,” Dean whispered, turning around on the sill a bit so he could meet his eye. Castiel saw how proud he looked, pleased that Castiel had seen his first ever falling star.  
Castiel panted softly as he looked at Dean, thinking hard and excitedly about what he could wish for. His last wish had been gifted to him by Dean, and had been for Dean to kiss him. Castiel’s life had turned upside down when it came true.  
“I made my wish, you done with yours yet?” Dean said, softly.  
“What did you wish for?” Castiel asked.  
Dean shook his head, smiling. “You’re not meant to tell.”  
Castiel considered his face, his beautiful lips and perfectly stubbled jaw. “My last wish didn’t come true until I told you what it was.”  
Dean shook his head again, “That’s ‘cause it was technically _my_ wish, Cas.”  
“I’ll make my wish when you tell me what yours was,” Castiel said.  
Dean snorted, then looked off into the distance, wrapping an arm around his leg that was hooked on the sill. “I wished that we can find a way out of this city, together, safe.”  
Castiel smiled sadly, then lowered his head in a nod. “I wish that we can stay together through anything terrible that happens. Life or death.”  
Dean smirked. “You’re kinda clingy, ain’t’cha,” he muttered.  
“Am I?”  
Dean shrugged a shoulder. “Not saying I don’t like it. Or that you should stop.” He leaned back again, falling into Castiel’s arms and letting him hug him. “Just sayin’, though. Not many married couples have that kind of commitment, even. They basically spend their whole lives trying to get ‘alone time’.”  
Castiel was troubled by this. He set his chin on Dean’s hair and sighed thoughtfully. “Why did they marry, then?”  
Dean blinked. “I dunno.” He paused for a moment, then said, “You know you said it was angels that mate for life? That it’s a species thing?”  
Castiel nodded, realising what Dean was getting at. “Yes, I know. Gabriel and Anna may love each other but they won’t mate for life. Neither will Balthazar, and while I can’t be sure about my other brothers, I think I may be the only one.”  
“‘cause you’re special, Cas,” Dean said warmly. “Kinky monogamous filthy fallen angel slut.”  
“Indeed.”  
Dean laughed and rolled his head back to Castiel’s, kissing his jaw. He breathed out, swallowing. ”You know this might be our last night together,” Dean said, very quiet. “I ain’t got a clue how our wishes will hold up, but I have a feeling something is gonna mess up majorly tomorrow.”  
“Yes,” Castiel said. “Me too.”  
“You wanna fuck all night, or you wanna snuggle?” Dean grinned into the skin of Castiel’s throat.  
“We may need to be awake tomorrow, if something is happening. I don’t think having had sex all night, either of us would be prepared.”  
Dean huffed disappointedly, his slightly mucky hand finding Castiel’s on his shoulder and dragging it to his heart, both feeling his heartbeat. “I don’t wanna leave you, Cas. I don’t wanna fall asleep. I don’t wanna wake up and have everything changed.”  
“In case nothing does change,” Castiel said, thinking, “in case we wake up and things are normal... There is something I want to do with you.”  
“What is it?” Dean asked, smiling. “You got somewhere else special you wanna do it?”  
“Not that,” Castiel replied. “Tomorrow is Sunday, the day we would have left... had we not been so greatly obstructed. Meg is at church in the morning.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“You’re meant to be at church as well.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“I want to come with you.”  
Dean stopped playing with Castiel’s fingers and tried to look up at him, but bumped his nose on his chin instead. “Cas, did you not just... Meg’s gonna be there!”  
“And if I am trapped in the city for the next five years, I will always have a hard time avoiding her. But at some point in my life... I want to hear singing, Dean. I want to hear you sing with everyone else.”  
Dean took in a breath, not sure how to answer. “But... Cas... You’ll be seen. I have to sit right up the front with Meg, you’d have to hide way in the back. Jesus, Cas - what if that’s it? What if that’s what happens, and you’re recognised. And we’re split up for years. What if that’s Death’s prophecy, and it all comes true because you wanted to hear some singing?”  
“But if I didn’t, what then? It could be anything. It could be that you are in church, and I’m not. Or that Meg never goes to church but comes here instead. There are innumerable things that could happen. We never have a daily plan, there is no schedule that we are breaking. There is nothing more likely to ruin everything than anything else.”  
Dean patted his chest and _hmm_ ’d. “You could go in disguise,” he said.  
“Do you have a disguise?”  
“Mojo, Cas. You could become anyone.”  
“I should not use my own mojo,” Castiel said sadly. “I don’t think I will ever know the joy or the freedom of being able to use my own power. If I have to save it all, until Death gets his object back and is freed... I may never have power again, after then. I’ll be human.”  
“Human’s not so bad, Cas. Don’t get upset about it.”  
Castiel chuckled and kissed the top of Dean’s head. “I’m not upset. Not if I get to spend my human life with you.”  
Dean smirked. “You’re clingy _and_ soppy. What more could a boy want?”  
“Should I stop?”  
Dean laughed softly and turned around, one leg swinging to the wall outside of the window. He looked at Cas so very lovingly that Castiel felt warm from the inside out. “Don’t ever change.”  
Castiel blinked and leaned to kiss Dean, sighing as Dean wrapped a hand around his head and turned him, fingers spreading in his hair.  
Dean nosed him away and smiled. “Gabe could do it, he’d love to dress you up in something.”  
“But Gabriel needs to conserve his power as well.”  
Dean shook his head. “He’s not gonna care, Cas. Once he’s human, he’s human for good, and so long as he’s got Anna, or you, or me - he’ll be fine. He’d love to have one of his last acts as an angel be to make you look like an ass, believe me.”  
“You think an ass wouldn’t stand out in a conservative church group?” Castiel said, and Dean laughed, pulling him in for another kiss.  
“What’d you wanna do for the rest of tonight?” Dean reminded him. “Maybe half sleep, half sex?”  
“Or,” Castiel said, kissing Dean, “we could lie together, and talk, or just...”  
Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s....” they kissed, “that’s good.”  
Castiel turned to look up at the sky, swallowing. Another white line shot through the blackness, twinkling into nothing. Castiel was the only one who had seen it.  
He turned to kiss Dean again, slow. He pulled away to look into his eyes, so beautiful.  
“I wish tonight could last forever.”  
~x~  
“But of course it didn’t,” Castiel said, sighing. “We barely talked, either.”  
“Then what did you do, or don’t I want to know?” Sam asked, half a grin on his face. He could barely see Castiel in the dark, but he heard his mournful sigh as it came again. It almost seemed like Castiel was only breathing in sighs now.  
Castiel was smiling around his words as he said, “We didn’t make love, either. We stayed together on the window for a long time, we kissed and... we were very content to stay there, but we did have to sleep eventually. We made our way back to my bed and we lay there until the candles went out. It must have been hours, we just lay there and...” Castiel sighed again, a hand over his face breaking the sound a slight. “We enjoyed each other’s smiles. Dean looked so happy every time he caught my eye, I don’t even think he knew how much pleasure he sent my way. His contentment was...” Castiel breathed out a laugh, almost teary, “it was glorious to bask in, really.”  
Castiel turned his head to look at the men beside him: Sam, who was straining his eyes in trying to see the road, and Bobby, who was half asleep. He’d long since passed the reins to Sam, which Gabriel was very happy about.  
“Sam, I think this is where Dean is,” Castiel said suddenly, tone sharper and less wistful. He was sitting up straighter, a hand on Sam’s shoulder.  
“Do I turn off?” Sam asked, unable to see anything beyond the extremely faint glow of Gabriel’s white mane in the low moonlight.  
Castiel waved a hand and a floating fireball materialised like a tiny moon. It was silver and bright, and everyone winced at the sudden brilliance. Bobby squawked and almost fell off the cart, held back only by by Sam’s reflexive hand that had reached out to grab him.  
“Sweet,” Gabriel said, once his eyes adjusted. Before them they could see the dirt track, the hoofprints in the middle only a few hours old. The trail did indeed turn off only a few minutes later, and Gabriel directed his hooves in its path. Crowley the donkey let out a disgruntled haw, far too loud in the silence of the ice-still night. But there they were, the heavy cart and its passengers rumbling over the grass verge at the side of the road, bumping down a slow incline and following a trampled grass trail for a few minutes.  
The cart bucked and thudded uncomfortably, and Sam was thrown from side-to-side as the wheels rolled over grass clumps and dipped into rabbit holes. At one point, the cart hit a frozen puddle and cracked the ice, one wheel locked in the ground until Gabriel pulled it free with his entire weight. The cage lurched and creaked on the back, but held steady.  
The floating fiery moon - only about as big as Sam’s hand - led the way for them, pausing every time they slowed. Castiel kept his eye on it, controlling its movement.  
“Turn right,” Castiel said, pointing. Sam didn’t even need to adjust the reins for Gabriel to lead them the right way.  
“He left poor Chevy in the middle of nowhere,” Gabriel said, spying the black horse standing alone on the moor. They all trundled to meet her, Sam hopping off the seat and ducking under the wooden bars that held the horses to the cart. He went to pat Chevy’s head, apologising when he woke her up.  
She was truly a loyal horse. Dean had abandoned her in a freezing, unsheltered field, a cold wind blowing through the unseen valley. The grass was frozen solid, and too short to eat. And yet, she had waited.  
She was pleased to see Sam, and nickered, nudging his hand. Bobby huffed and rubbed his eyes, going to the back of the cart to get some hay. Crowley strained against his wooden bar to try and reach it with his teeth, but Bobby shushed him and let Chevy have the first mouthful. Gabriel pulled himself free of the cart with his own nose, easily undoing the clasp and walking free. Crowley glared at him, so Gabriel went to undo his for him, too. Crowley gave no sound in thanks, but ceased his glaring.  
Sam shook his head fondly at all three of the four-legged creatures, patting Chevy again before joining Castiel in his search for Dean.  
“He left his clothes in her saddlebag,” Castiel said, raising the light ten feet in the air and brightening it so it covered more ground. They could see disturbed frosted grass, where footprints clearly turned from human to wolf. The tracks were smaller, and there were twice as many where Dean had set his paws down.  
“He went off into that forest,” Sam said, noticing how the dip in the grass veered off into the distance, heading straight for the blackness of trees.  
“I suppose all we can do now is wait,” Castiel muttered.  
“Yep,” Bobby said. He thrust a pickaxe into Castiel’s hand, and a shovel into Sam’s. “Start diggin’.”  
Sam eyed the shovel’s sharp scoop, not understanding why. “What are we digging?”  
“A wolf trap, dumbass,” Bobby grunted, taking the third shovel and stabbing at the hard ground, trying to find a good place to stick it in.  
“We’re still days from the city, what―?”  
Castiel exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to Sam’s as he nodded. “No, Bobby is correct. Dean will try his very best to leave us behind, to get to the city before we do.”  
Sam slumped his shoulders. “Is he always like this? Just... blazing ahead, not listening?”  
Castiel joined Bobby in sticking the first few thuds of metal into the frozen ground. “Only when he thinks he’s right.”  
“But he’s not right,” Sam said, testing his weight on the shovel before standing on it to bury it in. “If he kills Meg before Cas is there... he’s gonna regret that.”  
“Yep,” Bobby said. “Ain’t no way to make him listen ‘cept to truss him up like a turkey and yell at him.”  
Sam paused on his third chip into the ground, barely removing grass. “There has to be a better way. Nobody listens if you yell.”  
Castiel rolled his sleeves up and unhooked the travelling cloak from his shoulders, already warmer from using the pickaxe. “Unless you can think of a better way...”  
Sam was silent for a very long time. He became distracted by other thoughts, other questions.  
“It’s not strictly relevant, Cas, but...” Sam finally managed to throw a heap of frozen earth over his shoulder, “when you got shot, when you were a bird...”  
“Yes?”  
“Dean was really worried you were going to die. I thought you were immortal, I thought that was a massive problem.”  
Castiel stopped digging to put a hand in the small of his back, heaving a sigh. “None of us can be sure what would happen if I were to die as a hawk, but the fact remains that an arrow in your shoulder is painful, to say the least. I would not recommend trying it.”  
Sam grinned. “Wasn’t planning on it.” They all began to dig again, Bobby having marked out a square about the length of a grave each way.  
Sam lost himself in thought again, a thought coming with every stroke of his shoulders, the heat of burning muscle warming even his numb toes. After a good fifteen minutes, his toes were actually burning inside his boots, and he fancied they were steaming a little. It seemed apparent that there was no better way to keep warm in these temperatures than to dig a wolf trap.  
“You know,” Castiel said, interrupting everyone’s internal monologues, “that was the last time Dean and I made love. At least like that. We never... we never had that chance again.”  
Sam patted Castiel on the shoulder gently, then went straight back to digging. He hadn’t wanted to hear all about that ‘last time’ in the first place, but it had been exceedingly difficult to stop Castiel telling them. Bobby and Sam had given up fighting it once Gabriel began to repeat everything Castiel had been saying, in a far more seductive manner. It had been marginally less scarring from Castiel, and so they had let him get on with it.  
As they dug, Bobby kept opening his mouth to speak every half-minute or so, catching either Sam or Castiel’s eye, and then falling silent again. It was only when their wolf trap was a half-foot deep, that Castiel narrowed his eyes and huffed at him.  
“Either tell us or don’t, Bobby,” he said, “but stop making my mind flutter. Every time you try to speak I get a burst of thought and pain and colour, and then suddenly you look away, and then it happens all over again.” Castiel thumped his pickaxe onto the mud, evidently unhappy about this.  
“All right, fine,” Bobby grumbled, fuzzy eyebrows drawn downwards “But I’ll have you know I never intended to let Dean know this, so don’t either of you go repeatin’ it.”  
“Of course, Bobby,” Castiel said, and Sam glanced between the two men before nodding.  
Bobby straightened up, cricking his back with a grunt. “This is from that same night as you boys were havin’ your roll in the hay in that nest o’ yours.” He seemed very reluctant to continue speaking, but at a loud exhale from Castiel, he nodded and began.  
~x~  
Bobby had not been this tired in years. He dragged his feet over the tavern threshold, not even registering the wave of heat from inside that engulfed him. It was much the same as the night air, the sun having warmed the city all day.  
Bobby trudged over to a seat at the bar, one of many that were available.  
“Heya Father,” Jody said, raising her mug to greet him.  
“Don’t call me ‘Father’, it makes me feel old,” he said, getting comfortable and slumping over the bar. He waved a hand to Becky and had her pour his usual ale.  
“What’s getting you down this time? Is it tax season again? God knows I never pay attention,” Jody said, shaking her head. She sipped her mead noisily, smacking her lips.  
Bobby said nothing, and so she leaned on her elbow and peered at him amusedly.  
“Oh come on, what is it? New shipment of pews in your church? Capt- I mean, Father Rufus giving you hell about running Sunday mass?”  
Bobby remained unshaken as he took his ale and drank deeply. “Priestess has kept me up all hours, first it was a bunch of monks tryin’ to get me to look for that goddamned angel o’ theirs... then a funeral... and now...” He grunted, clamping his jaw shut.  
Jody huffed and shook her head. “What else, Bobby? It’s something. Uh, I dunno, that Dean Winchester of yours, maybe?”  
Bobby twitched his eyebrows, and that was all the encouragement Jody needed.  
She leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “He’s not doing great at the Captain thing, is he? He’s coming to moan to you in confession, huh,” she concluded, nodding firmly. Bobby hadn’t needed to say a word, but ever so perceptive was Jody Mills.  
Jody took a sip of her drink again, eyes scanning the half-full bar, about as empty as it ever was on Saturday night. By the middle of the night, the place would be crammed with drunken people, and both Bobby and Jody would be long gone.  
“You need to talk about it?” Jody asked, gently. “I got my own son, you know. Parenting ain’t something I’m lacking experience in.”  
Bobby sighed quietly, burying his nose in his ale. “Your kid is eight, Jody―”  
“Ten.”  
“―and he ain’t anywhere near as messed up as Dean is gettin’ to be. Lucky for you, chances are you’re never gonna have the same issue.”  
“Well, hey, Bobby, I never said I was gonna let my son go into the Guard, but I ain’t gonna stop him either. He can fight if he wants.”  
Bobby lowered his head. “Captainin’ ain’t the only problem he’s run into.” He took a long pause, wherein Jody said nothing, waiting. “It’s bigger than that. Kind’a problem that gets you strung up in life and burned up in death. There’s no escapin’, it.” Bobby closed his eyes tight. “He doesn’t seem to care so much as I do. Idjit.”  
Jody pulled in a soft breath, setting her mug down. “So... what exactly―”  
The tavern door burst open. A young energetic man, more than slightly intoxicated, collapsed over the back of someone’s chair, laughing.  
“Oh, Lordy!” he cried, laughing again. He had already attracted the attention of half the tavern, and the rest of them followed as he began to shout, “You’re not gonna believe what I just - haha! - what I just saw...”  
A large burly man in the corner grunted and threw a baked cherry tomato at the man’s head. He ducked it and laughed again, half-crumpling to the floor.  
Becky strode out from behind her bar and heaved him upright, glaring. “Either tell your story or get out. Or order another drink, but you’re paying me up front. Extra if you feel like you’re gonna heave.”  
The man bent over in another fit of giggles, and the majority of the tavern lost interest. Just another maddened drunkard, the likes of whom half this crowd would be joining later.  
“Naked men!” the man yelled, immidiately regaining his audience. “Two of ‘em!”  
The man snorted out a wet line of saliva and then straightened up, winking at Becky. She was unimpressed, hands on her hips.  
Bobby glanced at Jody, who was intent on watching the spectacle, and already Bobby felt a simmer of panic growing.  
“Lying, wrapped in each other’s aaaarms,” the man crooned, almost singing. “Willies out, _snuggling_ ―!”  
Becky pulled the man down to her height, fist on his collar. “You better not go spreading these stories around, they’re not decent for a crowd.” She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes, trying to burn the man’s skull out with her glare. “Blasphem―”  
“Cuddling!” The man stood up straight, knocking Becky away as he grinned. “And I saw ‘em kiss, all high up on the window top―”  
A thickly muscled man had stood up from a table, challenging the drunkard. “You’re a true darer, to speak these things.”  
The drunk man giggled, nodding. “All of ‘em true, have you know.”  
“Nobody wants to hear this utter filth,” the challenger hissed, stepping closer. Two other men stood behind him, one of them skinny and weak-looking, but he wore a disgusted expression on his face that looked like it could sour milk.  
The drunk man stopped his giggling, heaving a breath. “Just tellin’ you what I saw, no offence meant, man,” he laughed, hand out in front of him.  
The angry man in the front raised his eyebrows, a shadow across his face. “The words themselves are an offence, and a vile one.”  
“I invoke the name of God to clear our minds of these thoughts―”  
“―HOW DARE YOU SPEAK OF GOD IN THIS―”  
“I meant no harm, I meant no―”  
“FILTH!”  
“BLASPHEMY!”  
“IF YOU BREAK ONE SINGLE WINDOW I WILL HANG YOU ALL MYSELF.”  
Every man in the tavern ignored Becky’s last shout, chairs already flying. The man who had been laughing was now sobbing under a table, well out of the way of the fight that had broken out.  
It was a sore subject, undoubtedly. Shouts and screams cascaded around them, and even Jody threw her mug into the fray as the fighting spirit infected her. Bobby shook his head desperately, head in his hands.  
“Oh, Dean, what’ve you done?” he sighed.  
Jody paused her shouting to lean closer to Bobby’s head, hand on his shoulder. “You’d think a fight would take your mind off it, Bobby - come on, we can find some peanuts to throw―”  
“Dean’s the mess, Dean’s what’s goddamn causing this―”  
“Bobby, what are you talking about?”  
Bobby realised how dangerously on the edge he was, how close he was to giving away their secret to yet another person. Jody could be trusted, yes, but one more person was one more person. Simple as that.  
“I gotta go,” Bobby said, slipping from the barstool and making his way through the crowd, shoving people aside as they came at him with angry faces and stiff fists. He made his way to the door without another glance at the chaos unfolding behind him, opening and shutting it with a mindless gentle tug.  
The night suddenly seemed a lot cooler than it had when he’d entered. The air was fresh, clean, simmering with the sound of summer crickets or cicadas, Bobby had never known how to tell them apart.  
He shook his head, fist to his forehead. “Ugh, Dean,” he muttered. “How am I meant to clean up your mess this time? Too far, Dean... Way too far.”  
He snorted under his breath and began to walk back to the castle, dragging his feet through the dirt.  
“Going somewhere, Father?”  
Bobby didn’t recognise the voice at first, but as soon as he saw the uniform, he knew he was not in for a good night. “Virgil, I assume.”  
“Interesting story back there, wouldn’t you say?” the man said, casually. He leaned against the tavern wall, not even blinking as a sudden thud rattled the door right next to him.  
“Interesting, sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” Bobby said, face impassive.  
“It’s not the only thing I would call it, Father.” Virgil stood up straight, his heavy-set shoulders swaying as he made his way closer to Bobby. Right about now, running would be really sensible, but Bobby knew that it would be as fruitless as any other action. Angel power could drag him back through any wall, across any distance. This conversation was going to happen if he wanted it to or not.  
“What would you call it, then?”  
Virgil sneered down at Bobby, more than a head taller. He loomed. “I’d call it something you know a little more about than anyone else in that tavern, Singer.”  
“Father Singer to you.”  
“I’ll call you what I like, at least until you earn your name back.”  
“How do you suppose I do that, exactly? I’ll have you know I don’t owe you anythin’, so don’t expect anythin’ given.”  
Virgil smiled, a creepy line that seemed to be drawn on his face with a sharp object. The deep grooves in his muzzle cut even deeper into his face. “I expect to get exactly what I’m after, Singer. You’re coming with me.”  
“Am I now―”  
Bobby found himself dragged by an all-encompassing force, like a hand was over his mouth, arms around his middle, perhaps like ropes. Nothing touched him, but he was floating across the ground, body tipped like he was a potato sack being dragged by a lazy hand.  
He couldn’t struggle, it was simply impossible. The tavern left his sight, more streets passed by, and people going in the other direction looked on curiously.  
“Official Guard business, nothing to see,” Virgil called out, laughing slightly. Bobby grunted, then found a real hand over his mouth. Virgil’s hot breath wafted over Bobby’s beard, dark eyes peering down at him with a fearsome kind of pleasure. “You’ve got a lot of tale-telling you’re about to be doing, I’d prepare what you’re going to tell us first.”  
Us?  
A dark shape made its way closer, and as it stepped into the moonlight, Bobby realised that it was the angel named Raphael, and that the three of them were in a roofed building that was open to the elements on one side, maybe a stable  
There were no horses, no people, only a slanted roof, beams of moonlight falling across floating dust, and two grinning faces.  
“Let him loose, I want to hear what protests he makes first.” Raphael’s voice was deep and soothing, but it sluiced a chill down Bobby’s spine. In another context it might have been a pleasant voice, but here and now? It was a voice that inspired dread.  
Bobby felt the invisible ties fall away, and his chest was less constricted, but he was still held tight by a fear that he’d rather he hadn’t noticed. He still couldn’t move his feet.  
He should be brave, he was strong and he was _always_ brave. He did not feel brave now.  
He’d heard what angel magic could do to people. He’d heard what cruelties these men had inflicted upon people in the lower town. And now he was alone with them. It was fear for Dean he felt, he realised, not for himself. Not much, anyway. The things they would do to Dean would be beyond what they would ever do to Bobby.  
They might kill Bobby. But Dean? They would torture him. They would cause him pain for a very long time. All because he fell in love with the wrong person. It was twisted, and it agonised him to think about.  
“Oh, he’s not going to speak at all,” Raphael said softly, in a way that one might talk to a child to calm them. “Of course he’s not.”  
“He could do with some persuading, I think.”  
Raphael paused for a second, glancing to Virgil. “Was there something in particular you wanted from him, or are we just here to play?”  
Bobby’s gut clenched inside him, stomach acid turned cold.  
“I overheard a thought,” Virgil said, folding his arms and turning his head to the side, considering Bobby like he was a part of the building. “Our dear Captain has been doing a few wayward things.”  
“Ah, I see,” Raphael said, turning back to Bobby. He leaned down, his bony face half-lit by the moonlight. “Father father-figure knows a few things, I imagine. Anything helpful?”  
“The hell you want info on Dean for, you jackass?” Bobby bit his tongue, trying to hold back his anger. It wasn’t going to help him.  
“Ah, it speaks,” Raphael smiled, white teeth glinting. They were such a contrast to his dark skin, it looked like they were floating out in front of him.  
“What I heard,” Virgil started, tapping his fingers on his crossed arm, “was about our Captain Dean Winchester making a hash of something, right along with a story of a couple of boys up in a tower someplace.”  
Raphael seemed to get a lot more information from Virgil than he’d said in words, as he suddenly looked very surprised. “Well that _is_ a story, isn’t it,” he said slowly, eyeing Bobby.  
Bobby breathed hard, jaw set. He was all ready to punch one or both of these angels in the gullet and take off. Raphael’s hand around his throat stopped him.  
“Let’s try this, shall we? Oh Father Singer,” Raphael sang, “tell us what Dean Winchester is doing that’s so very terrible.”  
“Well you can go to Hell, you miserable - AAAA―”  
 _“Stop it!”  
Ed Singer turned around, seeing the loaded crossbow in his son’s hands. He laughed, wringing his fingers tighter through his wife’s hair. His chuckle was cheerful, like Bobby had just told a good joke. “You’re kiddin’, right?” His eyes looked the boy up and down, shaking his head very slightly. “You’re not half enough man to use that thing.”  
Bobby kept his hand on the trigger, below the firing wire. He knew how to use it.  
“You leave the adults to sort this out,” Ed said, nodding his head, like his words were actually going to change Bobby’s mind.  
Evelyn shivered at his feet, blood on her mouth. Her eyes were wide with terror, like they always were. It had to change, it had to. Bobby had no choice.  
Ed raised a hand to point at Bobby from across the room. “I will deal with you,” he shoved his finger, like he was imagining Bobby’s face under it, “later.”  
In a whip of movement, Ed swung the hand on Evelyn’s head upward, wrenching her to her feet by her hair. She gasped out a garbled scream, trying to pull free but too scared to actually do it.  
“Bob- Bobby, just go - just do what he says, just―”  
“No.”  
Bobby raised the crossbow, pointing it right at his father’s head.  
“Leave her alone.”  
He pulled the trigger, and he barely heard the hiss of the arrow as it flew. It cut through skull like it was nothing, and Ed stood there for a moment, not yet falling. His eyes were locked to Bobby’s face, still looking at him as he dropped to the ground.  
There was silence for a few seconds, shock punctuating every heartbeat.  
Evelyn was backed up against the wall, clinging to it. Her eyes turned from the dead body of her husband, the arrow sticking from his forehead, blood pooling on the floor - and her gaze met with Bobby’s. It was no less scared, no less troubled. Everything was the same, only this time, they had a dead man between them.  
“Bobby... what did you do?” she whispered.  
Bobby didn’t even know._  
“―AAAAAugh!” Bobby’s mouth trembled, gasping for breath like he’d been underwater.  
“Any persuasion? Feel anything?” Virgil smirked at Bobby, his nose hooked like a vulture’s beak, looking for a dead body to feast on.  
“Tell us, Singer. Tell us about Dean Winchester.”  
“If you - think you’re - gonna get a _lick_ outta me, you got another thing comi―”  
 _Bobby knew what was coming. “Take it this is goodbye.”  
It was going to be decades before he saw her again. Maybe longer. It could be never. This really was goodbye forever.  
Ellen looked up, pale streaks of tears through the blackness of human ash. “Bobby,” she said, breathy and empty.  
He had to do it, it was now or never. He would never get this chance again. He stepped up to her and kissed her chastely. It was bitter and chilling, the ash of the dead between them, only the barest touch of lips.  
Bobby felt the child wriggle between their bodies: a baby with a whole life ahead of him. He’d get to be with Ellen that whole life, while Bobby had lost her.  
He felt a last tear fall from his eye, cooling as it left him. “Have a nice life, Ellen Harvelle.”  
Ellen nodded, looking a decade older than she should. “You too, Bobby Singer. Take care of Dean.”  
Bobby mounted his horse, catching sight of the burned village before him. It was soulless now, nothing left but a black void.  
Ellen gave a still wave, only raising her hand. Bobby couldn’t look away, not even as his horse turned. He blinked back another tear, and kicked his horse to a gallop.  
He was never coming back, and so he didn’t look back. He left that life behind him._  
Bobby hissed angrily, trying not to let the tears spill. It felt as real as the moment he’d turned tail and run, the smoke tasted as it had that day, the smell of Ellen’s hair was fresh in his mind now.  
“Should we pry deeper, Singer? Or can you speak now? Maybe a little more?”  
“Give him a chance to speak, Virgil,” Raphael warned, hand to his accomplice. “No point in teasing him like this if he never gets a minute to think.”  
He leaned into Bobby’s face, the pores of his nose visible in the moonlight. “Feel like sharing yet, Singer? What’s Dean been doing? You know, of course, that we have ways of making you tell your secret tales.” Raphael glanced to Virgil, flashing a bright grin. “Tell us about Winchester’s lover.”  
“Suck it, you freak. I ain’t giving you nothin’.”  
“Really now?” Raphael queried. “Virgil, shall we test this theory?”  
Virgil looked far too pleased. He rolled up his sleeve, shoving forward and burying his arm in Bobby’s gut.  
 _Dean laughed, pulling the other person closer. Bobby could just see their hair and shoulders as he puffed his way up the stairs, shaking his head. He paused at the top of the bell tower, realising what he’d walked into.  
Dean was grasping at another man’s naked buttocks, hands rolling the skin in his palms. His own trousers were around his hips, and they were moving against each other. Their fronts were naked, Bobby could see how they were rubbing.  
Bobby was so stunned, he couldn’t move. Neither Dean nor his lover had seen him.  
“If anyone saw us doing this, what would they think?” Dean huffed, grinning. He looked exhilarated.  
“Damned if I know,” Bobby said, ignoring the fact that his lungs were burning from climbing. “But it might be along the lines of ‘you are going to Hell faster than I take my next breath’.”  
Dean looked up, grin fading quickly into a terrified stare, shocked and scared like a little boy caught stealing from the kitchen.  
The man in his arms was panting, trying but failing to pull away from Dean, only too aware of how naked and exposed they both were.  
“Oh... oh God,” the dark-haired man said. He was shivering, from whatever pleasure he’d been feeling, or sudden fear, Bobby couldn’t tell. “Bobby, please forgive us―” He broke off the sentence to grapple for his clothes, but in doing so the two men sprang away from each other, their sexes visible, hard and red, glistening in the rebounding sunlight.  
Bobby turned his head away immediately, trying hard not to blush or break something. “Ain’t my forgiveness you need, kid.” He could feel the sinful vibes from here, they were like a poisoned waterway between the three of them.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Dean struggling to clothe himself, his lover stumbling forward to shove everything under cover for him.  
“Bobby - we never meant you to see this―” the man said, and Bobby assumed correctly that he was the angel who had been talking to him in confession._  
“Ohh, so he’s an angel,” Raphael said. His intrigued voice slipped into something stony and threatening. “And a man, at that.”  
“You got - you got no right t’ - no right―”  
“I can do what I like, Singer. Compared to you, I am a god. Compared to your angel there, that sinner, the repugnant acts he’s committed...”  
“Oh, you think that kind’a love is a sin?” Bobby grunted, eyes narrowing. “How ‘bout rape, hm? Ohh, of course, that’s perfectly _fine_ ―” he coughed, a skinny hand tightening around his throat.  
“Women, Singer. Women are not shameful.”  
Bobby squeaked, his breath rasping to force out, “ _You’re_ the sinner, angel. You’re disgusting, and you - youhhh―” he couldn’t breathe any more, throat squeezed shut.  
“You’re going to Hell,” Bobby scraped, last of his air going to his words.  
“Leave him, I’d like to see him die of old age.” Virgil smiled, close to laughing. “Mortals, such pointless lives. How useless.”  
Raphael released Bobby, letting him sprawl in the dirt, wheezing like he was trying to breathe through a straw. His windpipe was crushed. Something was bleeding inside him.  
“Now, Virgil,” Raphael said, turning around with his bony hand on Virgil’s back, “what can we do with this information? So many possibilities.”  
~x~  
“All right, all right, I gotta... I gotta stop.” Bobby straightened up, throwing his shovel down. He ran his grimy hands down his face, dragging his ageing skin. “I goddamn lay there till mornin’. Found by Hastur, that pretty blonde angel... She’s nice enough,” he said, glancing to Castiel, who knew Hastur to be a handful. “She handed me over to Cupid, I made him _swear_ to keep everything quiet.”  
“But...” Castiel had already stopped his digging, resting his hands on the handle of the pickaxe. “Bobby, why did you never... why didn’t you tell―” he panted a few times, eyes searching the dirt they stood in. “Dean thought you gave up our relationship freely, he thought you betrayed us―”  
“ _You_ never thought that though, did you?” Bobby said quietly, looking up to Castiel.  
“That’s because I saw it in you, Bobby. When you said you didn’t, I could see you never lied.”  
“And Dean never had that power. I’m gonna let him believe what he wants, it’s gone and passed now. It’s not something we can change.”  
Sam sat down heavily on the side of their trap, which was shallow enough that his feet still touched the bottom as he sat. “Dean and Cas got found out by themselves,” he said, looking between Bobby and Castiel. “They were seen in the window, if they hadn’t been there, they’d never have been found. None of it was Bobby’s fault.”  
Bobby shook his head, grabbing Castiel’s pickaxe and going back to work. His face was lined with sweat, and he grunted with exertion.  
Castiel pleaded, “Bobby... please, you have to tell Dean. He’s never forgiven you, you know he never will unless he knows.”  
“That’s his problem. I know I’m in the clear. And yet there’s a part o’ me that can’t do nothin’ but blame myself. Wrong place, wrong time, but I’m the one who couldn’t hold it down. I messed up, Castiel. I messed up your lives, I messed up everything. Worse than you ever did.”  
“Bobby, you’re being ridiculous if you still blame yourself after telling us this.” Castiel took the pickaxe from Bobby, holding it tight when Bobby tried to snatch it back. “It is not your fault. Dean and I were... we were reckless, we were always reckless.”  
Sam lowered his eyes, staring at everyone’s muddy feet in the silver light that still hung above them, five feet up. It had begun to snow a while back, flecks of ice drifting from the heavens and settling on everything they could see. In only a few minutes the sea of already-frozen grass had turned into endless whiteness.  
“I’m gonna blame myself whatever I do, whatever you say.” Bobby sighed through his nose. “At the end o’ the day, I’m as stubborn as Dean himself. Or Crowley. I’m just an old ass. I mess up, and I bring everyone down around me.”  
“Bobby,” Sam said, standing up. “I know I’m not a part of this... but I don’t blame you. You’re completely clear in my mind. People know things, right? They know secrets, their own or other people’s... Doesn’t matter. They know things, and they have to share them. You keep it all bottled up and you end up with something leaking out. It was vague, what you said to your friend, Jody or... yeah, her. You didn’t give anything specific.”  
Sam glanced to Castiel. “No offence to angel folk, but they’re sneaky bastards. You’re hiding something and they know. You lie and they know. And - heh - apparently they can torture you with your own mind.”  
Bobby sat back against the other side of the pit, the half-inch of snow crunching under his weight. “Means a lot, kid, but I ain’t here for forgiveness or redemption. I ain’t helpin’ these damn boys out with their problems so I can feel better. I’m doin’ it ‘cause I screwed up, and I gotta fix that. I should’a died years back, I’m an old man. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I see some idjit pretty-boys kissin’ again.” He smiled warmly at Castiel, and Castiel gave a shy grin back, glancing to Sam.  
Sam grinned too. “Never thought I’d say it, but yeah, I kinda want to see them together as well.” He flicked his eyes quickly to Castiel, gasping. “Not like _that_ , not together-together with your freaky sex stuff, I mean you―” he gasped another deep breath, cold air chilling his throat, “I mean kissing. Just... together. Again. Happy, you know.”  
“I did realise that was what you meant, yes, Sam.”  
Sam saw Castiel smiling at him and they both laughed gently.  
Bobby grumbled at them, and his beard twitched as he brushed snow out of it. “I gotta take a nap, I’m old and cold and achy.”  
Castiel nodded, “Of course.”  
He raised his hand to the sky and brought the silver flame level with his face, then looked around - with a wave of his fingers, he piled the firewood Sam had painstakingly collected into a pointed shape. He let the fireball drift into the middle, and at once, it roared into a bright orange flame, bathing the area in warmth.  
“Cas,” Sam said, tone warning, “you need to save your magic.”  
Castiel’s lips set in a firm line as he looked at the fire, watching it melt the snow in a circle around it. “The way I see it, Sam... In a few days’ time, Bobby’s prophecy about the night without a day, and a day without a night... that will come to pass. At that time, we will determine whether Dean and I can ever be together again.”  
Castiel sighed and sat down beside Bobby at the side of the pit. Bobby was leaning against Gabriel’s side; the horse had come to lie behind him, to keep warm by the fire.  
“If Dean kills Meg before the right time... we will forever be separated. I will eventually wear down my Grace and become immortal. At some point, Dean will die of injury, or sickness, or old age. I will be on my own.  
“These next few days will determine my entire existence, Sam, not just my mortal life.” Castiel looked deep into Sam’s eyes, blue irises flickering with orange in the firelight. “I think I can chance using my power before then. It won’t wear down completely in these days; I have eleven years worth of power I have only gradually chipped away at.”  
“But...”  
“I feel reckless.” Castiel stated it simply, some part of him emotionally detached. “I feel as careless and heedless of consequences as Dean and I ever were. Don’t mistake this to mean I don’t care. Of course I care. But I...” he looked down at the clasped hands in his lap. “I will never know power after these events come to pass. This is my last chance to be an angel.”  
Sam smiled humourlessly, lips pressed into a line in an expression of acceptance.  
Castiel looked to Bobby, watching his eyes close gently, relaxing in the companionship and light that surrounded them.  
A wolf howled in the distance, and Castiel gasped, eyes snapping shut. It must be Dean, Sam thought. He even thought he recognised the sound of Dean’s voice himself. Castiel gulped and recovered after a moment.  
“I would like to continue,” he said to Sam. “From where I left off, when Dean and I fell asleep. After our last night together.”  
Sam nodded silently and let Castiel deliver.  
“We woke up so warm,” Castiel said, suddenly smiling, a burst of sunshine lighting him from inside. “Dean made a soft snuffly noise, and it woke me up... then he moaned, just quietly.”  
Castiel licked his lips, eyes on his feet as he began to swing them against the side of the pit. “He put his hand on my hip, let it slide up to my neck.” He glimpsed Sam’s expression, and smirked. “We didn’t make love, he only sought to greet me. He moved closer and we touched a little.”  
Castiel gasped with an open mouth, eyes closed. “No... no, I lie. We made love.” He stared at Sam directly as he said, “He put his hand around the two of us together, and he moved his hand until we both―”  
“Ew, Cas, enough already.”  
Castiel smiled. “I know how uncomfortable you feel, but I... please, Sam, I just... it was one of the last times he and I were intimate.”  
Sam rolled his eyes, hearing Bobby snoring. “Fine, just make it brief, okay? And I’m not listening.”  
Castiel swung his legs faster, still smiling. “His eyes stayed on my face, he watched me gasping and licking my lips... he kept moaning, I think he realised how enjoyable it was to let all his sounds free. I put my legs around him, we were lying side-by-side...”  
Castiel gulped, legs ceasing their swinging as he stared at the clasped hands in his lap. “He kissed my neck, he licked me... His moans tickled me, they were... yes, they were very erotic. I pulled all the blankets up over us, I made it completely dark. I could feel his breath on me, on my face, on my lips. He tasted strange after last night, but it wasn’t unpleasant...”  
Castiel hooked his legs up on the side of the pit, knocking some snow loose. He leant his chin on his knees and continued, “I didn’t see either of us as we came, but I felt it on our skin. It was so wet, and hot, like candle wax had fallen on us.”  
Sam ground his teeth, wishing he could stick his fingers in his ears without the danger of his hands getting too cold if he removed them from under his legs.  
“We lay in the dark for a while. Dean was still whining under his breath―” Castiel chuckled, “it got so hot, but we did nothing about it. We kissed... gently, sucking each other’s lips... We were very close, then. Our whole bodies were pressed up against one another, arms around each other’s waists.”  
Castiel flicked his eyes to Sam, who was trying very hard not to meet his gaze. “We heard Gabriel’s voice, calling for us. I had to throw the covers off, the cold air outside hit us both like... I don’t know, but it was displeasing. It was like being shaken awake from a wonderful dream.”  
“Everything was different, wasn’t it? Death’s prophecy came true?”  
Castiel shook his head. “No, not at all. It was only Gabriel, looking for Dean. Who was of course late for church.”  
“Did you get to go with him?”  
“Yes.” Castiel nodded. “We rushed down, and Dean was worried because, like you, he thought something terrible had already happened. But Gabriel had us - heh - put some clothes on, we were extremely uncovered. I think Dean was trying to enjoy the nudity like I did, he was parading himself in a way he was never comfortable with before. He held his hands out of the way of his private parts... Gabriel was unimpressed, but laughed about it.” Castiel chuckled quietly, hugging his knees tight.  
“Dean was actually rather embarrassed... I think he realised he had semen on his skin, because he ran back to the nest to dress himself. He threw my clothes down to me.” Castiel kept laughing, rocking his chin into his knees as he recounted his memories.  
“We gathered up some of the leftover food from the night before, Gabriel carried it with magic, and we travelled all the way to Dean’s room. There was not a single person going the other way, and Dean realised then that it was a lot earlier in the day than Gabriel had told us.”  
“Why’d he tell you that?” Sam asked, glancing at Gabriel, who was resting behind Bobby’s slumped body, ears flicking as he listened intently to the story.  
“Don’t look at me, I barely remember,” Gabriel whinnied, nose wriggling. “I’m just waiting for the good part.”  
Sam returned his attention to Castiel, who sighed as he smiled. “To this day I’m not sure, Gabriel.” He looked over to the horse. “I don’t know why you woke us up early. But I am grateful.” His smile turned sad, but remained in place. “I really am very glad. You tried to give us something very special that morning.”  
“Damn right I did,” Gabriel said. “Now come on, good part, good part!” he encouraged.  
~x~  
“You want to do _what?!_ ”  
“Singing, Gabriel. Every man, woman and child in this world has heard its sound. I have had to make do with Dean’s humming.”  
“It’s not all bad,” Dean huffed.  
“I never said it wasn’t,” Castiel conceded, “but one voice cannot possibly compare to those of all the hundreds of people I see entering the church every Sunday morning. To hear so many voices sing together...” his eyes unfocused as he tried to imagine, “it would be heavenly.”  
Dean scoffed. “Yeah, you angels with your fancy white dresses and your choirs of cherubs. You gotta miss that, if you remembered. Angel song.”  
“I’m sure it would have been glorious,” Castiel agreed.  
“Humans are crap singers,” Gabriel said. “They’re all outta tune and croaky first thing in the morning.”  
“And yet, I am curious. Even a croaky voice would be intriguing when joined by a hundred others. Even the frogs or the birds... when they sing together, it makes me tremble,” Castiel said, smiling. “I tremble with happiness. When Dean sings, I cry.”  
Gabriel lifted his eyebrows. “Not surprised by that one.”  
“Tears of joy, Gabriel. I had never heard such sweetness.”  
Gabriel snorted a laugh, stealing a slice of the pie that they’d brought back with them. “If sweetness is what you wanna call Dean’s voice, then you clearly have something wrong with your ears. He’s all...” he looked Dean up and down, “gruffly. And ruggedy. And look at that scruff,” he prodded Dean in the jaw, unshaven chin bristling at his touch.  
Castiel’s skin flared hot, a fast flare of heat running through him. “Dean’s stubble is a provocative texture, especially when he licks my―” He caught sight of the two men before him, Dean looking thunderous, Gabriel wary. “Nothing. He doesn’t lick me. At all. Ever.”  
Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling and Gabriel smirked, taking a massive bite of pie.  
“Fo, whot woff it you wanted me for, uxactly?” Gabriel asked, mouth full.  
Dean flashed a grin. “I had an idea, actually. Cas, I got no clue if you’ll like it, but...”  
Castiel nodded slightly, permission for Dean to share.  
“Okay, so, what if, right - you go to church as a woman. My girlfriend. Meg knows I have a girl, right?”  
Castiel stalled, then took a quick breath. “Gabriel could make me female?”  
Gabriel smiled, swallowing his pie. “I can do that, hells yeah.”  
Castiel tapped a foot nervously, eyes shifting. “But... how long would I be... how long would I not be male?”  
Dean saw how uncomfortable he was, and softened his enthusiasm with a shrug. “You don’t have to, Cas. You could go as a lord or something, just put you in something fancy and make your nose all blobby. It’s cool.”  
Castiel considered this, watching Gabriel plonk himself down on the wooden box at the foot of Dean’s bed.  
“But if I were a lord... I would have to stand with the rest of the congregation. I’ve seen the inside of the church, there is a wooden divide between the Priestess’ and the Captain’s space, and the rest of the church. I’d have to hide among other people.”  
Dean nodded.  
“I wouldn’t hear your voice.”  
“You gotta stay safe, Cas. That means Meg can’t see you, or recognise you.”  
Gabriel raised a hand, waving himself into the conversation. “I could do you some boobs and long hair, a pretty Sunday dress or something.” He studied Castiel’s face, trying to imagine him as a woman. “Hmm, long eyelashes, slimmer face... Maybe cut the eyebrows down a bit, yeah?”  
Dean looked at him quickly, then over to Castiel. “Um, leave his eyes as they are, if that’s what you’re gonna do.” He glanced back to Gabriel and swallowed. “Make him look different but... the same.”  
Castiel wrapped his arms around his middle, nervous. “Are you... sure this is going to be okay?”  
Gabriel stood up. “You’re in safe hands, bro. I’ll stay and keep the projection up while you go flounce around with your boyfriend here.” He winked at Castiel, which oddly enough made Castiel feel safer. “You never know, you could totally get your rocks off kissing in front of everyone, right?”  
Castiel tipped his head down, gasping quietly at the possibility. Dean cleared his throat.  
“I... I would like that, yes,” Castiel agreed. “If I were a woman, nobody would think it was strange.”  
Dean patted Castiel on the elbow. “You wanna do this?”  
Castiel looked up at him, smiling very slightly. “Yes. Yes. I want to stand by your side, as your partner, as your lover, and not have anyone think twice about our relationship.” He looked down and away. “I only wish I didn’t have to be a woman for that to happen. But I will allow it.”  
Gabriel clapped his hands once, rubbing them together.  
“Please, though...” Castiel gulped, “be gentle with it. I am...” he breathed hard, “I am scared. I don’t know why, but... to be removed of my body like this... it feels...” He couldn’t finish his thought, but Dean was nodding anyway.  
“Yeah, it’s not weird, Cas, to feel that. Hell, if Gabe was turning me into a girl...” He laughed gently, “I’d be freaking the fuck out right about now.”  
Castiel nodded. “Yes, I am. I am.”  
Dean wrapped both arms around him from behind, placing his hands over Castiel’s.  
“Whenever you’re ready, Cas,” Gabriel said. Castiel met his eyes. Gabriel’s eyes were always so warm and kind. Castiel nodded and swallowed again.  
He shut his eyelids tightly and clutched Dean’s hands in his own, already feeling his chest swelling and prickles on his shoulders as his hair grew longer. Castiel whimpered, and Dean squeezed him a little tighter.  
Castiel cracked open an eye and looked down, seeing his shirt pushed out away from him, mounds of flesh under it where there should be flatness.  
He screamed, falling free from Dean’s arms, hands on his chest, blind panic rushing through him.  
“No - NO! Turn it back, turn it back, I’m not - no!”  
Gabriel rushed forward to fix it as quickly as possible, the extra flesh vanishing back into nothing. Castiel sobbed and curled into a heap on the ground, shaking. Dean’s arms wrapped around him, hands patting, not sure how to comfort him.  
Castiel took a minute to recover, shivering violently. He looked up to see Gabriel staring down, concerned.  
“I didn’t hurt you... did I?” Gabriel asked, worried.  
Castiel shook his head, feeling Dean release him from the back, shuffling to sit beside him. “I want to be a man, I don’t...” he looked at Dean, “I want to be your man, not - not your woman. I want to have a penis, and a flat chest, and make love to you without the parts of a woman.”  
Dean nodded and shook his head as Castiel spoke. Then he said, “It’s only for a short while, Cas. It’s not gonna last.”  
Castiel shook his head. “It felt wrong. My body felt wrong... No, _no_... I hated it.”  
Dean looked to Gabriel, shrugging a shoulder. “Got another option?”  
Castiel looked up sharply. “We can still make me a woman. Just don’t change my body. Please.”  
Gabriel looked questioningly at Castiel, who licked his lips before elaborating. “Put me in a dress, make my hair long... m-maybe change my face a bit, so there’s no little hairs.”  
He breathed out a sigh of relief as he came to terms with his own thoughts. “I want to kiss Dean while everyone watches. I want that.” He gave Dean a small, weak smile, but it spread when Dean smiled back.  
“All right, come on then,” Dean sighed, tugging Castiel back to his feet, arms around him again, kissing his cheek as he curled protectively around his back. “Work your magic, Gabe.”  
Gabriel pursed his lips and concentrated very hard. Castiel exhaled sharply as he felt his hair growing again, twisting like tiny snakes over his shoulders, some catching in his top and growing under his shirt. He felt it stop at his sternum, then a strange squashing feeling as his jaw changed shape a slight. He grabbed at Dean tighter, who hushed him, helping him ride it out.  
“How does he look, Dean?” Gabriel said proudly, beckoning Dean forward to take a look at Castiel from the front.  
Dean patted Castiel gently, and Castiel let him free, eyes on him as Dean made his way to stand beside Gabriel. Castiel felt highly scrutinised, and he clenched his hands around his elbows, swallowing.  
“Am I still pretty?” he asked, trying to be humourous but all humour was lost along with his wavering voice. He realised it was the soft warble of a woman, graceful, lacking any of the deep roughness he was used to. He gasped, and Dean looked just as shocked as Castiel felt.  
“Is - is that okay, Cas?” Dean asked, quickly looking to Gabriel.  
Castiel opened his mouth, finding it opened a bit differently that he was used to. His lips felt fuller, more rounded. “It doesn’t scare me,” he said, almost laughing at how peculiar he sounded. He had only once heard himself make a sound that feminine, and that was when Dean had done something to him that had made him lose control of himself completely. But a passionate moan was nothing compared to how gentle he sounded right now.  
Castiel nodded. He was okay with his voice. “How do I look?”  
Dean grinned. “Well, you’re hot still?” he tried, and Castiel blushed a tiny bit. He was not used to blushing, not in this way.This felt natural, and he actually felt heat on his cheeks.  
“I dunno,” Dean said, turning his head and examining Castiel from a few paces away. “It’s like you’re half hot dude, half hot chick. Your face is all girl, your trousers are just, like... all dude. I can see your dick from here.”  
Castiel looked down at himself, and indeed, the line of his penis was visible through his trousers. Wearing breeches usually hid that better.  
“We should... we should do this quickly, I don’t want this to last too long,” Castiel whispered. “I don’t feel good, I feel ill and wrong and horrible...”  
“Cas, seriously, man, you don’t have to do this,” Dean said, stepped forward, taking Castiel in his arms, rubbing at his back as he kissed his forehead. “Singing can wait for another time.”  
Castiel shook his head, feeling long hair rippling across his arms. “Gabriel won’t have magic for too much longer. He’s the only one I trust to change me like this.”  
“Aw, shucks, bro,” Gabriel grinned, waiting patiently until Dean stepped away. “Hey, should I do you a dress now?”  
Castiel nodded. He pulled his shirt off, feeling hair fall on his bare back, cool and soft. It was like having strands of a blanket on him, it trapped heat against his skin. He looked at it, twirling it in his fingers; it was very much like his normal, short, near-black hair, but the thick tufts were gone, replaced by loose ringlets, which were separated into curious locks that curled individually, thickness petering out at the tips. He sniffed it; it smelled like nothing, only himself.  
He looked up to see Gabriel mid-way through creating a floor-length gown, with sleeves that dangled a foot above the floor, a skirt that parted at the sides, with an underskirt to cover his legs. He liked how it looked, but again, he felt the same trepidation. He was not a woman, and while it was not the idea of society and its outlook on women that he feared walking into, he couldn't shake the underlying thought that men did not wear dresses.  
He knew it was a Dean-like thing to say to himself, he knew that men could wear anything they wanted to wear, and that it was only society that told him differently. But still, he liked wearing trousers. He liked that without his breeches, he could see his genitalia through the cloth. He liked that his shirt showed off his collarbones, and that nobody cared if he rolled his sleeves to the elbow. He liked having bare feet, and being able to see them as he walked.  
In a dress, he would not see his feet, nor be able to roll his sleeves, nor experience his own body in the way he was used to.  
“You okay, Cas?”  
Castiel nodded slowly, eyes on the brown and green material as it flourished out of nothing. It was almost done, Gabriel was just adding a sash on the back and a string to tighten the corset.  
“Want me to help you get into it?” Dean asked gently, taking the dress from the air and walking to Castiel, cautious, like one might approach an angry cat.  
“Yes, please,” Castiel said, hesitating before undoing his trousers. Gabriel looked away, wandering to the window to see the sun a few hours past rising, still low in the sky.  
“You should put some breeches on,” Dean said, looking down. “If your skirt blows up in the wind or something.”  
Castiel glanced to the window. “It’s not windy today.”  
Dean licked his lips. “In case.”  
Castiel nodded, Gabriel already heading to Dean’s wardrobe. Of course, Gabriel could have created some new underthings, but somehow he had guessed how much more comfortable Castiel would be wearing Dean’s clothes. Gabriel handed him a white pair, threadbare, that caused Dean to smirk when he saw them.  
“Those are the ones I was wearing when you saw my junk the first time,” he said. “You pulled them off me.”  
Gabriel raised his hands in an amused surrender. “Whoa. You guys totally had a thing, didn’t you? Wow.”  
Dean looked to him, questioning.  
“I just mean,” Gabriel continued, “I can’t actually think of any guys, who would actually _do_ that sort’a thing. Pull each other’s clothes off. Or wonder what it’s like to kiss another dude. Or... do all the weird things you guys do with the...” he waved a hand to Dean’s hip, where he had seen semen smeared earlier, “weird kinky shit, man.”  
Dean was actually blushing, throat pulling up tight as he gulped. “Yeah... well... these things kinda happened by accident. I didn’t _want_ to, you know?” Dean watched Castiel tying up the breeches, then unfolded the dress so Castiel could slip it over his head. “I was freaking out, ‘cause there was this other - _dude_ , and I felt this...” Dean turned the dress in a circle, realising it was the wrong way around, “I dunno, it got me all hot, and I was practically trying to hold down a boner every time I saw him... God...”  
Dean looked very hard at Castiel as he let the dress fall around him, swinging down to the floor, the hem brushing his feet. “I don’t know what it was. I never wanted a dude. I don’t even like dudes. I mean, I look at you,” Dean looked to Gabriel, eyeing his whole being, “and all I see is another guy, you’re just like how I saw guys before. There’s nothing hot about you―”  
“Gee, thanks.”  
“―but I look at Cas, and it’s like...” Dean straightened Castiel’s collar, smoothing out the puffy shoulder material, “I want his cock, I want that jaw, I want that goddamn deep as fuck voice. His Cas-ness is like a massive turn-on for me. It’s...” Dean stepped closer to Castiel, breathing harder, eyes roaming between his lips and eyes. “Jesus Cas, you’re so fucking... fucking hot, I can’t even...”  
He was radiating arousal, burning heat emanating between their bodies. Castiel couldn’t help but return it, face running a fever, lips feeling like they were swelling under Dean’s breath.  
“Kiss me,” Castiel said.  
Dean did, and Castiel had never been kissed like that in his life. It was more passionate than ever, burning his lips like fire. Tongues licked, mouths smacked - his own lips felt strange under pressure, soft and plump. He moaned, hands running into Dean’s hair. His hands were the same as ever, still slim, still strong in his grip. Dean rolled into him, turning his head and crashing into Castiel’s mouth.  
“You know this never really stops being weird, right?” Gabriel said off to the side, watching them with his arms limp by his sides. “I mean, you’re both guys. You’re unicorns or something, I dunno.”  
Castiel broke the kiss to look at Gabriel, breath coming in tiny pants. “There is no such thing as unicorns.”  
Gabriel grinned and winked. “Exactly.”  
“Sure there are,” Dean smiled, kissing Castiel softly once more. “They just look like dudes. Their horns are their boners.”  
Castiel laughed so hard he headbutted Dean, eyes closed. He struggled to breathe as he lifted his head again, grinning upward with tears in his eyes. “You did not get enough sleep, did you, Dean?” he queried, still grinning as Dean shook his head.  
“Man, that voice of yours is freakin’ weird,” Dean said, continuing to shake his head at Castiel. “The rumble’s all gone, it’s all... soft edges and flowers.”  
Castiel calmed down a bit, reaching up to caress Dean’s stubbled face, then after a second’s thought, petted his own chin. The diamond-shaped jaw he was used to was much slimmer now, and the perma-stubble had vanished completely; he was left with skin as smooth as Dean’s inner hip, just beneath the bone. He fingered his lips, a little kiss-bitten, but so soft, like a waxy flower petal.  
“You still good, Cas?” Dean asked, probably taking in Castiel’s slightly astounded expression.  
Castiel nodded, letting out a breath. “I think we should go soon, I feel like we might need to leave the congregation early if I’m in this visage for too long. The panic is building.”  
Dean was concerned, but held Castiel’s hands in his and nodded slowly. He leaned in to kiss him again, lips pressing.  
“Go-go-go, bros, I got your back,” Gabriel hounded them, fluttering a hand to get them to move towards the door.  
“You’re staying here?” Castiel asked.  
“I gotta concentrate on the projection, and it’s hard to do when you’ve got a whole bunch of people singing at you.”  
Castiel nodded, taking Dean’s hand and pulling him to the exit. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “You’re sure Meg won’t recognise me?”  
Dean hesitated too, looking to Gabriel. “We’d be right up the front, Meg would want to say hi. She knows Cas’ face. He still looks like Cas.”  
Gabriel put a hand on his chin and narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I could change your eyes,” he said slowly. “Your bright blue, Cas, that’s your give-away. It’s a special kind’a Cas-blue.”  
Castiel and Dean looked long and hard at each other, Dean only having to look down the inch or so that Castiel stood below him. Even with his boots on, and Castiel bare-foot, Dean was not much taller. Castiel could easily pass for the height of a woman.  
“Could you bear that, Dean?” Castiel said very quietly. “To see me and see a different person?”  
Dean bit the back of his lower lip, sucking it between his teeth. “Could you bear to see me looking at you, taking a second to remember who I was looking at?”  
Castiel sighed, open-mouthed. “M-maybe. Only for a while.” He glanced to Gabriel. “Do it.”  
Gabriel shrugged a shoulder, then raised a hand, closing one eye and pointing a finger to Castiel’s face.  
Dean watched, stunned into stillness, as he saw Castiel’s eyes change right in front of him.  
“What colour are they now?” Castiel asked.  
Dean’s lip wobbled. “Brown.”  
“You’re upset,” Castiel observed.  
Dean looked at their intertwined hands, stroking a thumb over the soft part between Castiel’s thumb and first finger. “We gotta get this over with, Cas. I need you back.”  
Castiel nodded, leaning up to plant a kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Then let us depart, now.”  
They bid Gabriel farewell, Dean giving him a fast salute. Gabriel grinned and slumped back onto Dean’s bed, snorting with laughter.  
“If you mess with anything in this room, you’re getting some big-ass payback, believe me,” Dean warned him, pointing a finger. They shut the door behind them and went down the stairs, Castiel’s bare feet almost tripping on his long skirt as he got used to it.  
“Hold it up at the side, Cas,” Dean suggested, pulling it up for him and handing it to Castiel. He caught his eye and stopped breathing for a second, calming as soon as they made it into the sunlight at the bottom of the staircase.  
“This is surreal,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist. “Here I am with a hot chick and she doesn’t even have boobs,” he muttered, grinning.  
Castiel glanced down at his chest, and it was indeed very flat. “Will anyone notice?”  
Dean squeezed his hip softly. “Nah. Some chicks don’t have ample bosoms, it’s not something that’ll stand out. Besides this way, when I get to show you off to other guys? They’d be lookin’ at your pretty face rather than your boobs.”  
Castiel frowned, something that finally felt familiar on his own face. “I don’t understand this fascination men have with breasts,” he said, taking his skirt in hand as they made the top of the next staircase.  
“Yeah, well.” Dean grinned. “They’re kind of like balls, really. But bigger and with less hair.”  
Castiel’s frown deepened. “That is a very strange analogy.”  
Dean pursed his lips. “Eh, I dunno. I kinda like to suck ‘em. Like your balls. And they’re squishy. And you like them massaged, right?”  
Castiel blushed again, turning his face away, embarrassment amplified even more by the heat on his face. He let out a puff of air, turning back to Dean. “I find arousal is affecting me differently,” he mumbled. “It goes to my face rather than... lower.”  
Dean glanced at Castiel’s crotch, leading him down a hallway. “Try not to get a boner in that dress though, it’d be real hard to hide.”  
Castiel felt another rush of pleasure. “Suddenly I feel the need to deliberately make myself aroused. Just to see what it looks like.”  
Dean laughed and bumped Castiel on the hip, tugging him closer. “God, we are so messed up. Besides, you and boobs, Cas?”  
“Yes?”  
Dean’s face twitched and he smiled. “You, uh, you seriously don’t get it? You’ve never looked at a girl and thought, hey, that’s hot?”  
Castiel shook his head without hesitation. “Until I met you I never understood the need to touch another person, only myself. The idea of kissing was merely a curiosity. The fact that I found myself wanting it... it was confusing.”  
Dean hung his head, holding a door open for Castiel. “Same for me. Wanting a dude.”  
Castiel took Dean’s hand as they entered the covered walkway that passed the fountain. Monks were walking around, but nobody was ever really sure what they did. They seemed to exist solely to worship the ground Meg trod upon, and Castiel had never liked them.  
“Hey, Cas?”  
Castiel looked to Dean, enjoying how radiant his face was in the reflected sunlight.  
“You’re Dean-sexual.”  
Castiel smiled widely, knocking his head on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re Dean Winchester.”  
Dean’s eyelids flickered, and he huffed. “That wasn’t quite what I mea- oh, never mind. Come on.”  
They crossed the sunny courtyard between the walkway and the church, Castiel trying not to grin like a madman (or woman) when he realised people weren’t looking at them at all. People wandered past, ignoring the fact that Dean was holding another man’s hand.  
“Dean, I think it’s working,” Castiel whispered, looking around them.  
“Uh-huh,” Dean whispered back, grinning. “Can’t wait till we kiss.”  
“Can we use tongue?”  
“Anything you like, just no groping. Conservative church group, remember. And no moaning, and don’t get pissed off at Meg. Try not to talk to her if you can avoid it. And don’t, I repeat, do _not_ , get a boner.”  
“I will try my... heh, try my hardest.”  
Dean snorted, smirking at Castiel in the corner of his vision.  
“Dean,” Castiel said quietly, making Dean stop before they entered the church, just waiting in the walkway outside the chapel doors. People passed them, heading inside before mass.  
“What’s up, Cas?”  
“I... don’t want anything to go wrong. Death’s prophecy said it would. I’m worried it will.”  
“You still got time to back out, Cas. It’s fine.”  
“That’s not what I mean.”  
“Then what?”  
“If something awful goes wrong... please know that I...”  
Dean stayed silent as Castiel grappled for his next words.  
He gulped and tried again, eyes not leaving Dean’s face. “That I lo―”  
Dean put a finger over Castiel’s lips. “Don’t say it, Cas.”  
Castiel saw how Dean looked almost scared, his eyes shifting between Castiel's. Castiel exhaled slowly, licking his lower lip as Dean's finger dropped away.  
“Please,” Dean whispered, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not...”  
Castiel understood. Dean wanted to be the first to say it, and he wasn't ready to. Not yet.  
Castiel nodded, dropping his gaze. Dean squeezed his hand, taking a deep breath before leading him into the church.  
Castiel spent a second dwelling on Dean’s words. He hadn’t told him not to say it at all. Just not now. He wanted to hear it. And he knew what he’d been going to say.  
Castiel skipped a couple of steps and stayed close to Dean’s side. The pews were far from the central aisle, and nobody was sitting in them. People stood in groups all across the church, waiting for something. It was about half-full, with spaces easy to pass through, navigating people. There were children here, and Castiel gasped as he saw a young girl, running with a dress that looked like a miniature of the mother’s that she ran to. Their faces were similar, Castiel could see how the traits were passed from parent to child.  
“Dean, look,” Castiel whispered, pointing out the girl to Dean.  
Dean chuckled and pulled Castiel’s hand back down to his side. “Don’t point, Cas. And don’t stare. If you’re gonna point, use your whole hand, gesture like everything’s got strings attached, pulling you about.”  
“That sounds very unbecoming.”  
“It’s ladylike.”  
“You seem very well-versed.”  
Dean grinned. “They give lessons on elegance to the kids at the Guard. You gotta know how to move your weapon right, so you don’t flail and hurt someone.”  
“That sounds much like learning to make love.”  
Dean laughed out loud, turning heads as he gasped for breath. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at the onlookers in an apologetic yet challenging manner. Castiel was impressed at how such a subtle eyebrow movement could convey so much.  
“Dean, I feel a barely-controlled urge to shout to all of these people, tell them my gender.”  
“You know that’ll get us both killed, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“So don’t do it.”  
Castiel smirked. “I will not, I promise.”  
Dean smiled. He looked around at the people surrounding them; they were talking amongst themselves, mingling. It could only be a few minutes until the whole thing began, since Meg would be here soon.  
“Cas, did you want to kiss in front of Meg, or just people in general?”  
Castiel kept his voice as low as ever as he replied, “Both. Now, and when she arrives.”  
“Right now?”  
Castiel looked at the people, none of them were looking right at Dean and Castiel together, but they were certainly within a good few of their sights. The two of them were up on the top platform, so they were easily seen. This was where the Captain of the Guard sat with the Priestess when Rufus’ speech was in progress.  
“Yes, right now,” said Castiel.  
Dean smiled, taking both of Castiel’s hands in his own, feeling him tense.  
“Relax, Cas.”  
“I’m excited.”  
Dean smirked, one corner of his lip rising up his cheek. “You ready?”  
Castiel nodded.  
Dean leaned down and pressed a sweet, lip-driven kiss to Castiel’s mouth. Without even thinking, Castiel’s jaw fell open, lips working against Dean’s, rolling and twisting hotly, a hand reaching to hold the back of his neck.  
Dean let out a quiet sound of content, breathing a little harder on Castiel’s cheek. Castiel broke away an inch or so to breathe against Dean’s mouth, eyes down.  
Someone in the crowd whistled, a sharp two-note sound that made Castiel turn to see who made it. There were people staring at them. Ten, twenty, thirty people.  
“Dean, people are looking at us,” Castiel whispered.  
“Do you like it?”  
Castiel exhaled, breath ragged. “Yes,” he sighed, turning his head back to lick another wet line across Dean’s mouth, smacking and dragging lips and the tips of tongues. They pulled their bodies together, Dean’s arm around Castiel’s lower back. Castiel let one hand hold onto Dean’s bicep, keeping his arm away from his face so the audience could see their lips meeting.  
Dean sighed, nudging his lips one more time.  
“Don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner,” Dean muttered, to himself more than Castiel. Then he let out a stream of air through parted lips, nodding gently. “It’s good, I’m cool.”  
Castiel turned his face back to the assembled crowd, twice the number of people there as when they’d come in. He smiled at them, and a few people smiled back. One threw a flower, a few more whistled.  
“They like us together,” Castiel smiled against Dean. Dean slid his arm free from Castiel’s back, giving the crowd the tiniest wave.  
“That’s ‘cause we’re both hot.”  
“You have no sense of humility.”  
“Not when I’m with you, I don’t,” Dean said, grinning down at his lover.  
The crowd’s hubbub fell silent a second later, and Castiel understood immediately why.  
“Dean. Meg is coming.”  
“It’s okay, it’s gonna be fine.”  
Castiel squeezed his hand back, and nodded.  
The crowd parted, attentions diverted to the white dress and graceful gait that walked through them.  
“Captain,” Meg said, smiling warmly as she reached the top of the crowd, stepping up onto the platform at the front of the church. “Nice to see you’re here on time today,” she added, still giving a very real smile.  
Castiel was confused, he had never seen this truly friendly side of her.  
Dean leaned to kiss her hand - no, her ring. His other hand stayed wrapped with its fingers locked between Castiel’s, steadying.  
“And who’s this?” Meg asked, eyes turning to Castiel’s. Only a moment passed before Castiel recognised that she had no clue who he was. He silently thanked Gabriel, for no doubt his preparation was absolutely saving his life. This was a terrible, thoughtless thing to be doing. And yet, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to regret it.  
“C―”  
“She―”  
Dean and Castiel looked to each other in horror. They had no girl name for Castiel.  
“Pamela,” Dean blurted. “Works in the kitchens.”  
Meg’s soft expression turned condescending, looking up at Dean in a way that definitely looked disappointed. “Oh, Captain, surely you could do better.”  
Castiel dragged in a sharp gasp. He was offended, and he was not going to stand for that. “I will have you know that I am more of a―”  
“Shh, Pamela,” Dean soothed, shaking his head pointedly with slightly bugged eyes. “Don’t yell at the Priestess.”  
Meg looked sadly up at Dean, sighing. “And such a _brave_ choice of personality, as well. I’m sure you had your reasons.”  
“I did actually,” Dean said. “Ca- Pam, she’s...” Dean licked his lips, turning his eyes to Castiel.  
Castiel saw the flicker of alarm as he found a woman’s face staring back, brown eyes, long hair, no stubbled jaw. “She’s beautiful.”  
Meg studied Castiel’s face, observing rather like one might a marble statue, or a drawing that was not quite right. Castiel felt a thrilling terror. What if she recognised him now, so close under scrutiny?  
“You must see how unusually plain she is, Captain,” Meg said, uncaring, eyes flicking straight back to Dean. “A handsome man, such as yourself, deserves someone more... shall we say, graceful. Perhaps with a better social standing.”  
Her gaze on Dean flickered, and she flashed him a shy, purposefully seductive smile. “Oh goodness, I’ve just described myself, haven’t I?” she giggled, a hand over her lips.  
Dean stood there with his mouth hanging slightly open.  
Of course, Castiel had already realised what was happening. He’d been worried for Rat for some time, but now he knew Meg’s true motivation: Dean must have caught her eye, and in Castiel’s absence... well, she was latching on to the first attractive man she saw, possibly.  
There were similarities in physicality between Dean and Castiel, maybe that was it. They were both a similar height, both pale-skinned. Both toned and muscular, both slim. They both spoke with a deep, rough voice; both had captivating eyes, and Castiel could not deny such a fact.  
“Dean is mine,” Castiel said quietly, realising only afterwards how threatening he sounded. He had not meant it as a threat, only a warning. “Please do not flirt with him.”  
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Meg said, tone warm once more, reaching a hand to stroke Castiel’s upper arm. He wrenched it out of her grasp, hating her touch. She withdrew her slender fingers, somewhat shocked.  
Castiel sneered at her, hatred burning in his eyes, making them water a tiny bit. “Do not touch me.”  
Meg looked to Dean, appalled. “This is really who you choose to associate with, Captain?”  
“Yeah, actually,” Dean said, voice firm. “And while I’m marginally flattered by your interest, I’m with Cas on this. Paws off.”  
Meg began to laugh, then froze. Virgil stepped up to her side, both pairs of eyes on Dean as Virgil whispered something in Meg’s ear.  
Castiel had realised what had gone wrong the very second it had happened. Dean hadn’t even noticed, he was still resolutely holding Meg’s gaze as she stared him down.  
She never even got a chance to look back to Castiel, however, before she whispered her thanks to Virgil, then turned back to Dean. “It seems I have urgent business in the castle, please forgive me if I miss today’s service.” She spared Castiel only the graciousness of a half-lidded blink, barely a glance, before turning to leave.  
“Dean... Dean―” Castiel whispered, desperate. “Oh, no, Dean―”  
“It’s okay, Cas, she’s gone.”  
“Dean, you didn’t notice?”  
“Notice what?”  
“You said my name to her. You said ‘Cas’.”  
Dean sucked in a dry breath, eyes scanning the faces in the crowd below, preparing for the sermon as Rufus climbed past them, headed for the pulpit.  
“Oh... oh fuck, I did, didn’t I―?”  
Rufus raised his eyebrows as he passed. “Colourful language for a church, Captain.”  
Dean ignored him, hand to his mouth. “Shit shit shit shit.”  
“But,” Castiel added, tugging Dean to the side of the church before Rufus started talking, so they were out of view of most people, “I don’t think she noticed, Virgil distracted her. We could be safe. I could be... safe.”  
Dean nodded quickly, breathing out. “Yeah, yeah, you could b―”  
“Dean.”  
“You could be fine, you know, she could just brush it off―”  
“ _Dean_.”  
“What is it, Cas?”  
He didn’t even need to tell him. Dean took one look at Castiel and his eyes flew wide, dragging in a fast gasp. “Oh fuck, no, no―”  
Castiel’s hair was receding, snaky twirls of dark locks climbing their way back into his head. He had only a shoulder-length bob before Dean reached to grab the nearest thing he found, the red cloth that hung around the neck of a passing priest.  
“The hell?”  
“Bobby,” Dean said, startled to see Bobby awake during the day. He looked terrible, both Dean and Castiel could see it. But that wasn’t the pressing problem right now. Dean threw the cloth over Castiel’s head, like a woman’s shawl.  
“Bobby, we gotta get Cas outta here, right now.”  
“Cas?” Bobby asked, eyes narrowed. His eyes jumped to Castiel’s face, no recognition until Castiel felt a tingle in his eyes, presumably the Cas-blue returning, and Bobby’s face lit up with awe.  
Rufus had already started to welcome the gathering, arms spread wide. Castiel ached to stay, he wanted to study these proceedings so very badly. But alas, he was in danger. He could not be recognised as male, not after so many people had seen Dean and him kissing.  
“All right,” Bobby said, glancing around to see how easily they could make the exit. There were too many people between where they stood now and the main doors. Bobby thought for only a second longer before twitching two fingers at Dean, beckoning him to follow.  
Bobby started to make his way to the front of the church, where Rufus stood, calling something out about the perils of desire. It was fitting, really.  
Dean didn’t follow, holding Castiel back by an arm. He shook his head, hoping Bobby would turn around to see they’d stayed.  
“Dean, we need to leave,” Castiel said, voice almost as deep as normal. The gritty low note was in there now, under the gentle feminine tone.  
“Bobby, _Bobby_ ,” Dean hissed, trying to project his whisper without anyone else hearing. Bobby was edging around the altar, and Dean gave up, turning back to Castiel. “We can’t go up there, we have to sneak back―”  
They both looked to the crowd, all the people’s focus intent on Rufus. Dean sighed thinly, then began to tug Castiel to the furthest wall of the church, not far from where they already were, but close enough that their shoulders almost brushed stone. People looked at them as Dean led Castiel by the hand, excusing them as they passed.  
Castiel kept his head down, covered by the cloth. It smelled like Bobby, warm, incense-y, and somewhat like ale. He couldn’t see anything except Dean’s feet, boots turning on the stone as they walked slowly. The murmur of people’s voices reached the edge of his hearing, much quieter than Rufus’s booming voice.  
But then Dean stopped, hand squeezing Castiel’s.  
“Get back here, y’idjit,” Bobby muttered, right behind Castiel’s head. Dean’s boots spun on the spot, a quiet sound escaping his lips.  
“Back door, I can’t open the main one in the middle o’ service, you’ll just make a bigger scene,” Bobby said softly, even the quiet words drawing disgruntled complaints from surrounding churchgoers.  
Dean sighed and began to press Castiel back in the other direction, Castiel now following Bobby’s swaying priest’s gowns. They made it back to where they had started, the warmth of other bodies lost as they breached the edge of the crowd. Castiel stepped back up onto the front platform, recognising the spot where Dean and he had kissed.  
Rufus was still preaching up on the left, and together the three men made their way to the very corner of the church. Both Dean and Castiel realised now that Bobby was not leading them right to centre stage, but to a cranny in the side of the wall.  
They turned, and the air changed; it was noticeably cooler, and Rufus’ voice did not carry here so well.  
“You can watch where you’re goin’ now, Castiel, you’re outta sight.”  
Castiel breathed a sigh of relief, letting the shawl fall to his shoulders as they walked. Dean stepped to his side, still not letting go of his hand. They were in a long, darkened stone passageway, with turnings off to both sides through arched doors, all closed. Bobby led them further into the darkness, the air getting colder as they went. Sound echoed, their footsteps reverberating in Castiel’s head.  
“Where are we going?” Castiel whispered.  
“Someplace safe,” Bobby replied.  
Only a few seconds later, Bobby reached the end of the corridor and opened the door at the end. A gust of outside air rushed over Castiel, the cloth around his neck almost fluttering away. The sight of green leaves met his eyes, and his ears filled with the sound of twittering birds.  
They all three stepped out into the mid-morning sunlight, and it was like stepping into a garden. Before their feet was a fallen tree, still growing, green leaves with their undersides presented to the sky. A sparrow hopped in its branches, fluttering as Bobby closed the door behind them, tweeting a sharp warning as it left.  
They were in a graveyard, Castiel realised. He’d only ever heard Death’s stories about cemeteries, but it was easy enough to identify, once he saw the crosses and arched headstones, and carvings of angels, weeping over century-old granite caskets.  
“Thank you, Bobby,” Castiel said quietly.  
“Man,” Dean said, his hand dropping from Castiel’s and moving to put it on his own head, rubbing his hair. “What the hell.”  
“Something must have happened to Gabriel,” Castiel said. “It was not meant to wear off so quickly.”  
Dean’s face winced slightly, disagreeing. “Gabe can’t hold up projections for all that long, he must’ve just lost it.”  
“Anyone care to explain why Castiel here is dressed up like a damn carnival freak?”  
Castiel looked down at himself, spreading his arms. The dress was a layered brown, heavy detail on the outside skirts; the inner part was deep forest green. Castiel couldn’t help but think it might have been a better look on Dean.  
“I wanted to hear the choirs sing, and the congregation,” Castiel said. “It would seem fate was against me.”  
Dean was quiet, hand over his mouth as he rubbed his lips. Castiel looked up at him and sighed slowly.  
“Dean, I don’t think she noticed. Virgil distracted her when he whispered to her.”  
“Not the point, Cas. I almost wrecked everything.”  
Castiel felt a sudden wave of panic from Bobby, and he turned to him sharply, startled. “Bobby, what is it?”  
Bobby laughed nervously. “Nothin’, you boys get back to your fancy dress. I got a sermon to take after this. Priestess messed up my sleepin’ schedule and now I’ve got things to do all hours o’ the day.”  
Castiel took a breath to ask further, as the heavy feeling hadn’t left Bobby, but Bobby held up a hand.  
“We can talk later, Castiel. You got someplace where you can change?”  
Castiel glanced to Dean, and they both nodded.  
“All right,” Bobby said, quiet. He opened the church door again, hinges creaking. “Stay outta trouble.”  
“We will,” Castiel said. Then Bobby was gone, and Dean still seemed troubled.  
“Dean, we should go. Bobby was right,” Castiel said, twisting the fabric of Bobby’s scarf-like cloth between his fingers. “I need to change, we shouldn’t linger.” There was nobody around, only trees and birds. Dean seemed to be lingering anyway. “Dean?”  
Dean shook his head, not meeting Castiel’s eyes as he held out a hand for him to take.  
Castiel felt shut out, somehow. There was a change, something was different. He felt it, but didn’t want to say it, not if it would worry Dean further.  
Castiel put the shawl back over his hair and led Dean around the side of the church, over pat-down leaves and lumpy grass. They walked in silence, subdued.  
The grass ended, and Castiel realised then that they had been inside a closed garden, still in the centre of the city. They passed under a painted white archway and were back in the courtyard in front of the chapel. There was the walkway, and beneath their feet was the white sand that covered every other part of the city.  
Dean pulled Castiel’s shawl a little lower, leading him by the hand back to the building that Dean’s rooms were in. He opened the door for him, and Castiel couldn’t even see the stairs as they started to climb.  
“You okay, Cas?”  
“Yes.”  
There was a long pause. “You sound like yourself again,” Dean said.  
“You don’t sound overjoyed at the fact,” Castiel said with a smile.  
“I am, Cas. That wasn’t what I... You just sound kinda sad, is all.”  
“Yes.”  
Dean turned them around a corner, guiding Castiel away from someone that passed in the other direction. “You, uh... you need to talk about it?”  
“No.”  
Dean squeezed his hand, just gently. “Okay.”  
“It was just that I never got to hear the singing, after all that happened. It was pointless.”  
“Sometimes things turn out like that, Cas. Battles, you know? They’re really all for nothing. You win, you lose, but there’s still dead people on the field.”  
“I don’t understand how that is... relevant.”  
“I just mean that it doesn’t matter what you do, if things go okay, then great, yeah. But if things go wrong...”  
“You’re trying to make me feel better,” Castiel observed.  
“Is it working?”  
“Not at all. You’re talking about people dying.”  
Dean was quiet for a long moment, guiding Castiel up the penultimate staircase.  
“I’m sorry, Cas.”  
“For talking about battles?”  
“For you not hearing singing. One day you will, I promise.”  
They didn’t speak another word until they got to Dean’s room. Castiel still felt a crushing sense of imminent doom. It had returned from days past, and it was creeping into him as they climbed higher up the spiral staircase.  
He would have told Dean, given the intensity at which he felt it, but he was not sure how to word it. He stayed silent, letting Dean go first to open his bedroom door.  
Castiel checked once they entered, to see if anything terrible had happened to Gabriel. He was worried. But Gabriel was not even there.  
“Gabe must’ve taken off,” Dean said, dropping Castiel’s hand as he closed the door for him. “Chicken. Noticed his spell wore off and turned tail.” He was grinning as he said it, and Castiel felt less burdened to see Dean smile. Maybe everything was okay after all. Maybe he’d just been feeling Dean’s sullen mood.  
“Come on then,” Dean said, beckoning to Castiel with both hands. “Let’s get that dress off you.”  
“You don’t like it,” Castiel said simply, slipping the shawl onto Dean’s bed as they stood at the foot of it.  
“I like you in trousers, and naked, and half-naked, and in blue, maybe black.” Dean stood behind Castiel and undid the string of the corset, letting him lean forward and brace his hands on the bedpost. “You look good in a dress, yeah, but... no. You don’t like it, so I don’t like it.”  
Castiel smiled soundly. “The only thing I like about it is that you’re taking it off me.”  
Dean hummed an amused note, tugging the last string free. Castiel felt the air of the room on his back, and Dean’s fingertips on him as he pushed the material apart. It slumped around his shoulders, then he let go of the bedpost to let it fall and collect around his waist. Dean shuffled it down to the ground for him, and Castiel took hold of the bedpost again, setting his feet apart.  
“You expecting something, Cas?” Dean asked, chuckling.  
“I would not say no to your hands on me right now,” Castiel said quietly. “Anywhere on me, I don’t care. Just... I feel strange saying it, but, make me feel like a man again.”  
Dean grinned against his skin, mouth on the back of his neck. “I know that feeling.”  
Hands found Castiel’s midriff, smoothing up the flat planes of his stomach. Castiel sighed, eyes falling shut as Dean cupped his hands around his nipples.  
“Boob-free, just the way it should be,” Dean breathed, still smiling.  
Castiel stayed silent, needing further distraction. His head was pounding with discontent. He’d had a headache before, but this was different. This was emotion, too heavily built-up. Something was happening right now, and Castiel had no way of knowing what it was. It was bad; he had such a grave feeling.  
“Dean, please... distract me. Touch me so much I can’t feel anything else.”  
Dean made a soft sound, but stopped before he completed his word, holding back his queries. “All right.”  
He sighed against Castiel’s neck, hands massaging Castiel’s chest. His fingers dragged lower, nails tickling the hair under Castiel’s navel. “You know that girls don’t have hair here?” Dean whispered.  
“I didn’t know that,” Castiel said. “I suppose I should thank you for telling me, that could potentially be useful to know at some point in my life.”  
Dean snorted a laugh, headbutting Castiel’s back. “Sarcasm, Cas? When did that happen?”  
“That was sarcasm?”  
Dean laughed even harder at the thought that Castiel might have been serious. Castiel felt pleased, heartened by Dean’s cheer. He rearranged his grip on the bedpost and stuck out his hips, trying to encourage Dean’s hands.  
Dean slid his fingers down Castiel’s hips, muttering, “You have real nice boy-hips.” He patted Castiel’s side sharply, skin slapping. “Nice ‘n solid.”  
Fingers travelled further, pressing the line of muscle that led down into Castiel’s breeches. Castiel mewled on a soft exhale as Dean’s hand pushed past the drawstring, flat under the material. As soon as Dean had some wriggle room, he took hold of Castiel’s member and touched it all over - not a sexual touch... just...  
“Dean, what are you doing?”  
Dean shrugged. “Checking it’s still there.”  
Castiel laughed. “Why would it not still be there?”  
“Well, you know, what with the whole―”  
The bedroom window smashed, a spray of glass tinkling out onto the floorboards. Dean and Castiel turned around, eyes meeting with something Castiel didn’t know what to make of.  
Sprawled in the middle of the floor, its tiny wings flapping feebly, was an odd-looking sparrow. It was obviously injured by its crash, and without a thought, Castiel rushed forward, wanting to kneel and cup it in his hands.  
He never made it even halfway there, however, before Dean grabbed Castiel by the back of the arm, pulling him to a stop.  
“Hang on a second,” Dean said, calmly.  
“But―”  
Castiel gasped and stopped trying to move forward when the bird thrummed, its feathers pulsing on its body. It didn’t make a sound, only fluttered and shivered. It seemed to be rippling like the wind was wrinkling over it, and as Castiel watched, it changed shape.  
“Dean... what―?”  
“Give him a second, Cas.”  
Castiel waited as the bird grew longer, its feet turning thick and brown, wings growing slimmer and darker. Its beak receded, its plumage seemed to vanish back inside itself. In another ten seconds, Castiel knew what he was looking at.  
“Gabriel,” he said, awed.  
“Just another kind’a magic, bro,” Gabriel said, voice broken, speaking for his injuries. He struggled to his feet, breathing unevenly. He was cut all over, like he’d been sliced by a knife.  
“That...” Castiel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze coming through the broken window. “That was not made by the glass,” Castiel managed. He looked Gabriel up and down, stepping closer to press a gentle hand to Gabriel’s face. Gabriel winced.  
“Cas,” Gabriel said, eyes closing with the effort of withstanding the pain he must be feeling. “Cas, I gotta take you to your room.”  
Castiel dropped his hand quickly, stepping backward, into Dean’s arms as he caught him. “Meg’s looking for me, isn’t she?”  
Gabriel frowned. “Not so much looking, as knows exactly where the hell you are. She sent - _ahh_ \- she sent me to get you.” Gabriel winced as he pulled a shard of glass from his shoulder, the shirt around it soaked in dark blood.  
“I don’t... I don’t have to go,” Castiel said, patting his hand behind him to find Dean’s, so he could hold it. “I’m staying here.”  
Gabriel smiled sadly. “I can’t stop her, she’s... Cas, I have to take... have to t-...” He gasped, deep and sharp, curling over himself in pain. “Now - _now_ , Cas - I’m sorry, I’m sor―”  
Castiel turned to Dean, desperate. Dean clung tightly to his hand, shaking his head wordlessly.  
“Dean, I feel it, I feel her pull. I have to go.”  
Dean shook his head again, stepping after Castiel’s withdrawing hand. “No―”  
“Dean, she’s killing Gabriel. She’s using an incredible amount of my power as we speak. She’s... she so angry.” Castiel was breathing hard, chest heaving. He was more aware of his body than ever, aware that what he felt was panic, and fear, and aware that his hands were cold, that his throat was closing up.  
He felt himself folding up tighter, like he was being crushed into a tiny ball. His face in front of him seemed far too pointy, his hands too wide. The last thing he saw clearly was Dean’s terrified face; green eyes, parted lips, freckles visible in the daylight. He was beautiful, but he was ruined by fear.  
Castiel’s vision turned to a panorama, stretched and warped; the colours he was used to seeing faded, everything turned to washed-out greys, highlighted only by the brightest, shiniest of things. Dean’s eyes glimmered like the last of Castiel’s hope, looking down at him from a mile above.  
“We gotta go, bro,” Gabriel said by his side. Castiel turned his head to see the sparrow once more looking back at him, standing awkwardly on the floorboards, one wing trailing.  
“I’m a bird,” Castiel said.  
“Mountain Bluebird, if I’m not mistak―” Gabriel whistled out a scream of pain, a sound that wrecked the inside of Castiel’s mind; it was shrill and extended, it cut into Castiel like it was his own agony.  
“Now, Cas―” Gabriel flapped his wings feebly, but was unable to lift himself. He didn’t need to, as a second later, an unseen force ripped him from the ground and had him tumbling in mid-air, wings flailing uselessly.  
Dean thumped forwards, boots like deathly heavy weights, which Castiel avoided by instinct alone, lifting himself with a single flap of his wings. He swooped without thinking, ducking Dean’s rescuing hands as he tried to right the floating Gabriel, still being thrown around and tossed in the middle of the room.  
Dean only had to touch Gabriel before he settled in his hand, shaking like a young tree in a thunderstorm. Dean looked to Castiel, who was hovering effortlessly, even without wind under his wings.  
Gabriel took off, dropping sharply as he left Dean’s hands, but zooming to crash into the window, hitting it with his head and thumping to the ground. Castiel flew and picked him up, finding him easy enough to carry in his dainty grey feet. He couldn’t even turn to see Dean before he was carried through the broken window, pulled like a horse on a rein. There was something tight around his throat, an invisible leash.  
The outside air hit him, not simply warm in the early summer heat, but sweet and sticky, dusty, buzzing with life and food and distractions. He tried to clear his mind, to take control of the magic that was pulling him, but he was totally limited by the bird-size brain he had; it was being easily commanded.  
His feathers trembled and lashed the wrong way as they were pulled over courtyards and gardens, passing over a turret. His feet dared not let go of the sparrow in his grip. Gabriel was unconscious, and Castiel couldn’t even tell if he was alive. He might be dead. He might be dead and Castiel wasn't being allowed the chance to check.  
Another window smashed over Castiel’s back as he was pulled through it. It was like being forced through the ground, or a sheet of ice on a lake. He heard the crisp, sizzling sound of cracking glass, only a split second before a sharp jangle, and then he was floating again, bones broken.  
He flumped down beside his brother on a wooden floor. He knew this floor well, he knew this groove in the floor well. He was in his own bedroom.  
Castiel tried to move, to check on Gabriel, but the flash of pain he felt was too much to endure, and he fell back, head down. His face was fat and fluffy, and felt like a cushion was tied to it. He closed one eye, the one that threatened to scrape the floorboard, and found that it closed roundly, covering over an eyeball that was pushed out from his face.  
A constricting sensation stole over him: that of a hand clasping him in a tight grip. He screamed in pain, head falling back weakly. The sound escaped as a grainy chirrup, distorted and mournful.  
The dark-haired woman above him began to speak, and while Castiel had expected the sound to be grating, or garbled, it came through as clear as the light on her face.  
“It’s only safe to say, angel, that a little birdie has been telling me stories.”  
Castiel chirped an insult drenched in loathing.  
Meg laughed, eyes closing. “And proud of it, Castiel.”  
She dropped him to the ground, and he could do nothing to stop himself from thudding like a dead animal, too broken to move at all. He lay, beak-down, wings out to his sides. He had no idea how many bones Mountain Bluebirds had in their bodies, but Castiel was certain that enough of them were broken to have him declared him as dead. If he were not an angel, and immortal, he would have died already.  
“Get up, Castiel.”  
Castiel did not move.  
“I said, get up.”  
Castiel felt his beak pull itself back inside his face, the hardness of it turning back into skull, re-creating the cartilage in his nose. His ears grew from the cushion of feathers around his head, his wings became fingers, each screaming in pain. His back curved in the other direction, legs changing their joints, clicking back into place. Everything was snapped, everything was severed.  
Nerves were sliced, veins were cut open, his back was set in the wrong position. He was well and truly crushed.  
“Get up,” Meg said again, and Castiel did.  
He could not scream, for his vocal cords had been shredded by moving bone. His jaw was open, slack, half off its hinge. He couldn’t taste the blood in his mouth, his tongue was numbed. He was held up by nothing but Meg’s power. His own Grace.  
His Grace... It was here, in this room. It was around her neck, hidden as always by her high-necked white dress. The bottle could not be nearly as chunky as the other vials, for there was nothing distinguishable from Meg’s collarbone, the two bones meeting flatly under her throat. There was no necklace, not that Castiel could tell.  
The room was still wrecked, torn apart by Meg yesterday. The wardrobe was in shards, the bed had lost its posts, the hangings ripped. Castiel’s bloodstains were still visible. The washroom door was loose off its frame, and the sheets from all around the room had been torn and dragged everywhere. Some parts of the room even looked like they’d been set fire to.  
“In case you were wondering, angel,” Meg said carelessly, eyes on the back of her hand as she checked her nails, “the little bird with a story to tell... he’s a brother of yours.”  
Castiel could only blink.  
Meg smirked at him. Her scent was distinctive as she stepped right up to him, with her eyes falling to his lips. She smelled of summer flowers, of a peaceful afternoon in the sun. Castiel wanted to shut his senses off, to not breathe in what presently smelled vile to him. But he couldn’t, as his heavy breathing was the only thing that helped him feel human. Alive.  
“He tells me that a good friend of yours, a man named Bobby Singer, handed over a whole volume of pertinent information.”  
Castiel realised why Bobby had seemed so spooked earlier. It was pure guilt, that was the emotion Bobby had felt.  
“Castiel, my dear, darling angel,” Meg said, hand cupping Castiel’s broken jaw and clicking it back into place like it was a misplaced hair, “do tell me it’s not true.”  
What was not true? What did she know? Castiel had a single theory. One that chilled him to consider.  
“A lover, angel?” Meg almost looked hurt. Castiel knew her hurt was real, but for selfish reasons. There was no other way Meg could feel.  
“A _male_ lover?” As she said the word ‘male’, she gritted her teeth so hard that her whole skull shook and the word came out like a buzz. Her manicured fingernails dug so deeply into Castiel’s cheek that one pierced his skin, cutting until he was almost sure it had gone all the way through.  
Meg tilted her head, expression softened to something warm, like how the mother in the church had looked at her daughter as she ran to her.  
No... this was cold. It was malicious, and completely, utterly fake. She was mimicking warmth. This was what she’d always done, and Castiel had only just understood how she did it.  
“My Captain,” Meg said, her thumb brushing blood over Castiel’s lips. He could smell it. “My Captain Dean Winchester. He stole you from me.”  
Meg was absolutely right. Dean was a thief. He’d stolen Castiel’s heart right out from under Meg’s nose.  
Meg pursed her lips, like she was about to kiss someone. “Aww,” she said, petting Castiel’s cheek. “Are you in love, precious?”  
 _Yes._  
“You like how he makes you feel?” She spoke as if he would have difficulty understanding her words, like he was stupid. She rounded her mouth on every word, nodding as she made deliberate, extended eye contact.  
 _Yes._  
“Does he make you feel all _squiggly_ inside?” she smiled, shivering her body like a bird shaking its feathers after rain.  
 _Yes._  
“Do you like...” she curled her hand gently in Castiel’s hair, standing on tiptoes to press the edge of her lips to his jaw, soft and rosy, and whispered: “...the way he kisses you?” She turned her head to Castiel’s other cheek, dragging her lips on his stubble. “Do you love when he touches you?”  
 _Yes._  
Meg hovered her face right under Castiel’s nose, nudging him in the same way that Dean did. “I wonder what he would think, angel.” Her lips were pulling on Castiel’s, blood between them. “I wonder what he would do.” She turned his head down, and he felt his neck snap. “I wonder what he would _feel_ , if I kissed you.”  
“I’d wrench your sorry ass up through your stomach and have it dangle in your face.”  
Meg dropped Castiel’s head, only held on by half its muscles. The rest were ripped under the skin.  
“Get away from him. Now.”  
Meg sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “Oh, you men. Do you never learn?”  
“Shut the fuck up. Move.”  
“Oh, honey,” Meg said. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
Dean made no initial reaction, but his fear was given away by the fast glance he flicked at Castiel. “We’ll see,” he said, voice still strong. He stepped forward, sword raised.  
“You know that you can’t hurt me, don’t you?” Meg said slowly, smirking at Dean. “I have a lot of power, you see. Magic powers.”  
Dean laughed mirthlessly, chancing another glimpse in Castiel’s direction. Castiel couldn’t react, he couldn’t feel most of his face. “Oh, I know you do. I’ve seen your - what would you call them? Your carvings. On Cas. Your marks. Magic ones.”  
Meg looked on, pitifully. “Oh, that must’ve hurt your eeny-weeny soul, Captain. To realise your poor baby isn’t yours at all.”  
Dean had taken two steps closer when Meg had looked back at Castiel. She returned her gaze to Dean, and Castiel saw her shoulders jar in shock, only for a moment. He had his sword raised, both hands on it, steady. The blade didn’t waver an inch. “The day he belongs to you is the day Hell freezes over.”  
Somehow managing to do it gracefully, Meg snorted. She raised her hand, looking away, trying for careless, as she swiped her hand through the air to remove Dean’s sword.  
His sword didn’t seem swayed by her power at all. Castiel tried to smile, realising Dean was not even struggling to withstand the force.  
The power of love. It worked very well indeed.  
“Not so easy, is it?” Dean said, a fearless smile curling up one side of his face. “To use someone’s power against them.”  
Meg dropped her hand back to her side in three tiny starts, not sure what to do. “What are you... how are you doing that?”  
“Where’s Castiel’s Grace, Meg?”  
Meg’s shoulders stiffened, head down, her eyes on Dean. “How do you know about that?”  
“Answer the question.”  
Meg lifted her chin, defiant. She raised her hand again and made another attempt at knocking Dean to the ground, to no avail.  
“Just stop trying,” Dean said, taking a step closer. Meg looked like she wanted to step back, and Castiel felt her magical hold on his body wither as her concentration on him wavered.  
“How dare you,” Meg said, sounding unimpressed rather than angry. “You steal my property, you enter a private meeting without invitation, and now you dare to―”  
“Quit stalling,” Dean said. “Either give me the Grace or get out of my way.”  
Meg turned to look at Castiel, still hanging limply, toes brushing the ground. “You don’t want him any more, trust me.” She turned back to Dean, who hadn’t moved any closer. “He’s broken. As soon as I drop him, he’s never moving again.”  
“Well don’t drop him, then,” Dean said, growling. Castiel could see how much he was aching to move, to attack, but he’d known Meg’s words were true before she’d even spoken. Castiel must look dead, completely dead. Only his eyes were still moving, and that must be how Dean knew he was still alive. Even his breaths weren’t moving him.  
“Ooh,” Meg said, smiling. She flicked a single finger, and Castiel was shaken down a few inches, head lolling. Dean reacted instinctively, stepping forward to catch him. In the second his guard was down, Meg had her hands around Dean’s neck.  
Castiel didn’t know why Dean couldn’t move, Meg was so much weaker than him physically. But she had her hands on him, and now Dean was as still and silent as Castiel.  
“That’s better,” Meg sighed, turning so she could see Castiel better. Dean’s eyes were wide, sword lying on the ground beside him. He was on his knees, arms limp.  
“Now, angel,” Meg said. “Wouldn’t you like to see your beloved break and bleed? That sounds like fun.”  
It didn’t. Not at all.  
Meg pursed her lips again, releasing a single hand from Dean’s neck to comb it through his hair, dark brown-blonde tufts running like grass in the wind. “Where shall we start?”  
She lifted her hand and locked eyes with Castiel, knowing he was watching as a single talon grew from the end of her finger. It was like a white claw, straight with a slight curve on the inside edge. Gaze still on Castiel, Meg lowered the claw to Dean’s face.  
 _No... Don’t_ ―  
The claw rested its tip on the underside of Dean’s right eye. He couldn’t blink, somehow. He was staring at Castiel, eyes watering. Meg gritted her teeth, and Castiel saw the line of her smile as she pressed the claw into Dean’s eye.  
Nothing happened.  
“Wh...?”  
Castiel wished he could smirk, to let her know what he’d done.  
The claw simply couldn’t get any closer to Dean. She tried, oh, she _tried_ , but her hands was shaking with effort, and she couldn’t move her hand to hurt him.  
“Why... can’t I...?” Meg whispered, withdrawing the claw and letting that hand hang by her side, its pointed ends brushing and catching on her white dress.  
Even in Castiel’s body’s death-state, his magic was still usable. And it was stronger than hers. She was only using the outer layer, the aura of Grace that surrounded the bottle. Castiel had the power inside him. He had the power to stop her.  
Meg inhaled a sharp breath, understanding. She looked terrifyingly angry. Castiel felt a flicker of fear. This was bad, this was very bad.  
He had power against her, yes, but his Grace was not the only power she had. She had had Death in her grip long before she had laid her hands on angel Grace. The amount of power that she had at her disposal must be incredible.  
Meg’s hand on Dean’s neck tightened. Even with all the power she had... she was going to use her hands. Her bare hands. She was going to choke Dean to death.  
It was smart, it was - it was very smart. As she used no power, Castiel couldn’t interfere. He was helpless, and Dean was going to die. He was dying as Castiel watched.  
... _Wait_...  
She was using power to keep Dean down on his knees. It wasn’t as simple as _knowing_ , for Castiel. He had to calculate, he had to work out himself where the power was going. At the moment, it was concentrated in her left hand, holding Dean by the shoulder.  
Castiel tried to blast her hand away, but her fingers only twitched. It... It was not only Castiel’s Grace she was using. This was more powerful.  
It made no sense.  
 _Dean!_  
Meg faltered. She looked down at Dean, her hair falling to the side of her shoulder as she considered him. “Why aren’t you dead already?”  
Dean tilted his head back to look at her. He was moving, how was he moving?  
“Funny thing, power. Isn’t it, Meg?”  
That was not Dean’s voice. It was coming from Dean’s mouth, using his vocal chords, but it was not his speech.  
“You are not allowed to be here,” Meg sneered, apparently recognising who was possessing Dean. “Get out, I want to kill this man.”  
“Oh, like I care what _you_ want,” Dean said. “You never really understood, did you?”  
“Understood what?” Meg asked, resentfully taking the bait.  
“How power works. It’s not all waving your hand and having things float around.” Dean blinked, head twitching. “You keep Grace to trap me, you keep me to keep the Grace. It’s symbiotic, yes,” Dean continued, “but what you never quite grasped, my dear, sickly worm - was how power works around other people.”  
Meg only stared.  
Dean sighed witheringly. With his head tipped back, Castiel could barely see his face, but his expressions were not usual for Dean.  
“You see,” Dean said, beginning his explanation, “they call it the power of love. If Dean here thinks very hard about Castiel, he can break your barriers, and they’re as worthless as a cheesecloth. Using the same method, if I, for example, were to think very hard about Castiel, I could leave this city.”  
Castiel understood who it was now. It was Death. Death was possessing Dean.  
“Then why do you stay, if you claim you have such freedom?” Meg asked, still sneering at the man kneeling before her. Her hand was still on Dean’s shoulder, but her grip had loosened.  
“My fate is set. I will be leaving five-and-a-half years from now.”  
“Will you now?”  
Dean nodded firmly, throat trembling with the effort of keeping his own head lying back as he spoke. It looked like an incredibly unnatural way to hold his head, and Castiel could only conclude that Meg was forcing it back.  
“As I was saying,” Death continued. Dean’s rough voice was not quite right for Death’s smooth tones. “The use of power. You’ve gone wrong, Meg. Very wrong.”  
Meg said nothing.  
“The power of a creature such as myself, combined with an angel Grace... yes, it gives you power, a mighty and seemingly all-controlling power. Your mistake lies with thinking that I, as Death, was servile to your will.”  
“But you are,” Meg said sternly. “You do what I want you to do. You have no free will.”  
Castiel straightened up, taking in a breath. “I think you’ll find he does.”  
Meg dropped Dean out of shock. Castiel stood before her, unblemished, unbroken, righted completely. Dean was now slumped on the floor, clutching the back of his neck. Gabriel stirred by the window, grunting.  
“No... _No!_ ” Meg shrieked, face contorting in impossible lines. Power leaked out of her pores - not escaping, but building. Her anger was intensifying it tenfold. Her eyes glowed dark, her hands growing white claws. They seemed real this time, like they belonged there. Her animal teeth bit into her lip, pooling blackened blood on her skin, trailing down onto her white dress.  
Death was not here any more, driven out by his own burst of power. He could be anywhere in the city.  
Meg snarled, her face beyond recognition. She was not human, she was nothing of the sort. She was a demon.  
Still, her white dress flowed from her, Dean not moving from her feet. Castiel watched out of the corner of his eye as Dean’s hand found his sword, grasping the hilt.  
“I invoke, conjure and command thee, O Death,” Meg cried, voice like a thousand dying birds, screeching and shrieking bloody murder. “I invoke, conjure and command thee! You have no will; you are under my command. You will kill Dean Winchester.”  
Castiel stepped forward. “He will do no such thing.” He bent to pull a heavy and disoriented Dean to his feet.  
A fast wind rushed through the room, smashing every remaining window. Castiel leaned over Dean, sheltering him from the blast, taking Dean’s weight as he crumpled.  
“I INVOKE, CONJURE AND COMMAND THEE, O DEATH.”  
Gabriel came to stand beside Castiel, unharmed. He looked straight to Meg, steady as he said, “I apologise for this, Castiel.”  
It was Death. Castiel recognised the imposing stance in which Gabriel stood.  
Meg was boiling, hair floating as her long teeth bared. The upper teeth had pierced her lower lip, black blood running down the white bone. Her lip was fixed to it, tugging as she spoke: “You will kill Dean Winchester.”  
Gabriel turned to Dean and Castiel, sorrow in his eyes. “I’m not going to kill you.”  
“YOU WILL KILL HIM.”  
“I can’t stop her power over me,” Death said, eyes sincere as he held them to Castiel’s. “I refuse to kill Dean, but I can―”  
“KILL.”  
“―I can curse. She has already transcribed what it will do. It will be just as permanent.”  
“No...” Castiel breathed. “Please, you have to―”  
“KILL.” Meg was pulsating now, hair lashing over her head and whipping at her eyes in the updraft of the tornado she'd created around her.  
“Please forgive me,” Death said, quietly. He raised a hand to Dean’s head, neither Castiel nor Dean able to move away, not to stall him, stop him, or speak.  
“I SAID _KILL_ , YOU WRETCHED BEAST.”  
Gabriel stepped back, his hand falling from Dean's forehead.  
Gabriel turned and stepped into the line of Meg’s burning wrath, his hair surging in the cauldron of contained stormy air. “I think Dean put it quite nicely, don’t you think?”  
Meg blinked. “What?”  
“Shut the fuck up.”  
With that, Gabriel raised his hand to Meg’s forehead and pressed two fingers there. She lurched like she was about to vomit, but then her fierce whirlwind died, and she slumped backward to the ground, her head hitting the floorboards with a thud.  
Dean shuddered, the hold on him now released. He gasped like a drowning man come up for air, hand finding Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself. Castiel grabbed him around the waist, keeping him standing.  
“What the - what the hell―” a gasp, “just... happened?”  
Gabriel stood before the two other men, shaking his head. He was all Gabriel now, nothing of Death left in him. “Looked a bit like a crowning moment of awesome, to me.”  
Castiel shook his head, eyes wide. “No... no, Dean’s - Dean’s cursed...”  
“With what?” Gabriel looked down at Dean, who was retching dryly. Both Castiel and Gabriel knew it was just panic that was making him react like that, not a curse.  
“I don’t know.” Castiel steeled his jaw. “I want to leave this room. I _hate_ this room.”  
Dean gasped again, shaking himself upright. “Wait... wait, is she d-... dead?”  
Gabriel shook his head. “Sleeping.”  
“Please,” Castiel said again, more desperately. “I need to leave this room.”  
And just like that, all three of them stood in Dean’s bedroom, Dean collapsing onto his own darkwood floor. Gabriel wobbled over to sit on the box at the end of Dean’s bed, his sword clanking against it as he buried his head in his hands.  
“Holy crap, Death’s got epic mojo,” Dean huffed, manoeuvring himself into an awkward sitting position. “I feel like I’ve been turned inside-out.”  
Castiel was standing motionlessly in the middle the room, his mind oddly composed. “Dean, you’ve been cursed.”  
“Yep,” Dean muttered, hand covering his face. “I heard the big guy.”  
“Do you... can you tell what it is?”  
Dean shook his head, nudging his forehead with a closed fist. “No friggin’ clue. I feel the same. Well. As much the same as you can feel after getting goddamn transported half a castle away.”  
“It’s permanent.”  
“Yeah, Cas, I heard him.”  
“I’m sorry, I just... I feel uncomfortable.”  
“No shit,” Dean said, bringing his legs to his chest, forehead on his knees. He was silent for a second, then let out a heavy drive of air, lifting his head. “Oh my God, Cas.”  
Dean scrambled to his feet, barely glancing at Gabriel as he made his way to Castiel’s side.  
“Cas...” Dean slapped a hand to his mouth, dragging it down and dropping it again. “You were... you were dead, you were... Jesus, you were―”  
Dean seemed to only just be remembering this now, and the memory wrapped itself around his face, lining it with shadows.  
“Oh, Cas, I’m so... I’m...” Dean’s eyes snapped shut and he launched himself into Castiel’s arms, pulling him close, grabbing at his bare skin, trying to wrench him even closer. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”  
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Dean.”  
“I got a million things to be sorry for,” Dean whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make her stop hurting you earlier. And that you had to suffer that.”  
“Dean, please...” Castiel tugged Dean’s head back gently, stroking his hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”  
“Man, you guys are like, super schmoopy.” Gabriel grinned at the two of them, hands rubbing his knees as he sat. “If you gotta be sorry about someone’s pain, Deano, feel for _me_ , bro. I got tortured and then thrown through two windows. All for you.” He prodded a finger between Dean and Castiel, smiling.  
Castiel left Dean’s arms and fell to his knees by Gabriel’s feet, eyes shining with tears. “Thank you.”  
Gabriel was taken aback for a second. “I wasn’t actually... You don’t have t―” Castiel wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s chest, squeezing. Dean set his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, gentle pressure shaking him. Gabriel looked between them, bewildered. “Uh, you’re welcome.”  
Castiel laughed wetly, pulling away and slapping a tear away from his own cheek. “We couldn’t ask for a more loyal friend.”  
Gabriel said nothing, simply accepting their gratitude.  
“Anyway,” Dean said, trying to break the long silence. “I think we need to find a way to sort this crap-fest out. Meg... should not be in charge of a city.”  
He held out a hand and Castiel took it, pulling himself up.  
“Uh, okay, yeah.” Gabriel stood up too, running a hand through his hair. “You realise she’s the most powerful thing on Earth besides Death, right?”  
Dean and Castiel both nodded. Castiel fiddled with the drawstring of his breeches as he sighed, “Well, we have five-and-a-half years to suffer through if we cannot succeed.”  
Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Where does this five-point-five years keep coming from? Second time I’ve heard that in ten minutes.”  
Dean and Castiel both looked to Gabriel, realising he didn’t know about their prophecies.  
“Death foretold that in five years time, he will have his power fully restored. It comes by means of a person who escapes from this city’s prison. They return Death’s power by returning a lost object hidden at Limn’mere - at which point, I believe Death will want to remove Meg from the Earth in a very decisive manner.”  
Gabriel bumped his bottom lip, mildly surprised. “Figures he’s pissed at her. She’s one sorry-ass Hellspawn.”  
“Until that time,” Castiel said, sadly, “I will have to remain in the city.”  
“How come?” Gabriel looked to Dean, who was wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist from behind.  
Castiel was momentarily distracted by the kiss Dean pressed to his neck, but then answered Gabriel’s question. “My own Grace is keeping me inside the city.” He sighed deeply, eyes to the floor. “Although I think I understand now why I couldn’t penetrate it when I was with Dean yesterday.”  
Gabriel scoffed quietly at the word ‘penetrate’, but then drew his face back into a serious expression.  
“What’s the reason?” Dean prompted, thumb stroking a pattern on Castiel’s stomach.  
“Meg is using both my Grace... and Death’s power. Together.”  
“So despite being a demonic wraith... _thing_ , she’s still essentially a powerless human nobody?”  
“Hey,” Dean said.  
“No offence meant. Your power is your perky nipples and epically inhuman swordsmanship.”  
Castiel smiled. “His penis is perkier than his nipples.” Dean smirked into the side of Castiel’s neck as Gabriel laughed.  
Gabriel dragged the conversation back on topic without hesitation. “But you’re trapped.”  
“Yes.”  
Gabriel shrugged. “You heard Death, though, with the monologue about power? What if, right - if he can break some of the power, and you can break some of the power... you could pretty much walk right through the barrier.”  
Castiel’s eyebrows flickered into a frown, so Gabriel continued.  
“It’s partly his mojo too. So without him you’re stuck here. And he’s stuck here unless he has you. Cas and Death could leave together. Power-mojo team effort symbiosis.”  
Castiel nodded, then nodded again. “But... but Dean and I cannot leave.”  
“Oh, come _on_ , what the hell?” Gabriel demanded, rolling his head back in exasperation. “You guys need to find your freedom, bigtime!”  
“But... Raphael... the Guard.”  
“Screw it, geez.”  
Dean’s grip on Castiel tightened a little more, breathing shallower. He felt excitement, some thrill.  
“No,” Castiel complained. He had to say it again: “People will get hurt if Raphael is Captain.”  
“You really think all the rest of us Guard people will let icky old Raffie be Captain?”  
Dean opened his mouth to protest, then glanced to Castiel and realised Gabriel was right. Every member of the Guard, all of Dean’s friends, and Castiel’s friends... they would fight. They would all fight to the death so nobody else would be hurt by Raphael. He and Meg were the only threats this city faced. No outside enemies, no wars. Not any more.  
But Castiel knew that Dean would not let anyone fight to the death. He also knew that exactly that would happen if they left. And so, they could not leave. That was final.  
“We’re not leaving,” Dean said quietly, and Castiel didn’t hesitate before nodding.  
Gabriel touched his eyebrow, severely disappointed. “Well, you better prepare for a major shitstorm, then. Meg’s gonna wake up, and you’re kidding yourselves if you think she’s not gonna tear the city apart looking for you. So she can kill you.”  
Dean sighed into Castiel’s shoulder.  
“You realise your Captain job is kaput.”  
“Yeah, I just got that, thanks.”  
“So you staying basically has no bearing on anything.”  
Dean shook his head, wobbling on Castiel’s shoulder. “ _And_ I have a mysterious curse. Some kind’a permanent doo-hickey...”  
“The possibilities of what your curse may be are near endless,” Castiel said, reasonably. “Until we see signs or symptoms, I recommend we―”  
“Pretend it doesn’t exist.”  
“I was going to say keep calm and carry on.”  
“Close enough.”  
Gabriel heaved a sigh. “That shitstorm’s on the horizon, boys,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I can see it coming, it’s picking up wandering sheep and turning them into little fluffy lightning bolts.”  
Castiel swallowed. While a colourful metaphor, it was probably accurate.  
“You two can’t have more than a few hours, at most,” Gabriel said. “Unless you get out of here, Dean’s gonna be dead in a matter of days or less. Soon as Meg works out how to zap you with lightning or something.”  
“What shall we do?” Castiel asked quietly.  
“We should pack,” Dean said. “Pack light. For travelling.”  
Dean said it easily, but the words were weighted with promises. Castiel began to smile, and the smile turned into a rumbling laugh, and seconds later he was pulled into Dean’s arms, kissing between joyous barks of laughter.  
Gabriel watched them spin in a circle together, grinning. “I’ll get a cart ready. You two stay outta sight, all right? I’ll put a friends-only lock on the door.”  
Dean’s head fell back as he laughed a final time, bringing Castiel into a long and elated kiss, both of them sighing into it.  
“All right, all right,” Gabriel huffed in mock resentment. He patted each of his friends on the shoulder and passed them on his way to the door, Castiel looking up to nod gratefully at him. Gabriel saluted him with two fingers, and closed Dean’s bedroom door behind him.  
~x~


	5. V

“Ooh, ooh!” Gabriel said, nodding his head, almost shaking Bobby awake. The old man grunted and smacked his lips, then went right back to snoring. “Can I tell the next bit?” Gabriel nickered, trying to whisper, but finding that his horse-sized voice let him do no such thing.  
Castiel sighed, smiling. “I was looking forward to telling my next part,” he said, “but I have to admit, having heard your part of this before... yes, yours might be more interesting. Marginally.”  
Sam grinned at Castiel, not knowing what either part contained, but he assumed Castiel was using sarcasm correctly in the context. Sam was proud of him for that, in some way.  
“What’dya think, Sammy? Sex or violent bloodshed?”  
Sam was about to shout “Bloodshed!” but then realised that he wasn’t actually so sure.  
Castiel rolled his eyes gently, still smiling. “We can come back to the sex. Tell us about the bloodshed.”  
Sam wrapped his arms tighter around his legs, glad he’d added more logs to the fire already. The snowing had stopped, but it was even colder now that there was no blanket of falling snow in the air.  
Gabriel snorted, nose wriggling. “Okay, let’s see...”  
~x~  
By the time Gabriel reached the last staircase and stepped out into the walkway beside the fountain, he knew something wasn’t right. He hadn’t expected everything to happen so quickly.  
He crossed the walkway as fast as possible while still walking, with a hand on his sword hilt. He could hear shouting, angry shouting. It could be nothing... or it could be something.  
Given the events of the last hour, it was far more likely to be something bad.  
The sun was high in the sky; it was only just past midday. It beat down hot on the top of his head as he followed the raucous sound - the shouting became louder, and the slicing sound of a sword being drawn met his ears.  
He rounded the side of the first castle wall and saw what the racket was. In the middle of the wide courtyard outside the chapel was a small group of people. All men, all Guard members. He saw Ivan, Garth, Balthazar, and Virgil, among others. There were maybe five other people, but only two had their swords out. Balthazar, and Virgil. Of course it was them, they were both quick to draw swords. Quick to fight it out.  
“All right, what’s going on?” Gabriel called, nudging a dark-skinned man with a wide forehead out of the way. “Who should I bet on?”  
Ivan grinned, watching Balthazar swing his weapon in a circle, twirling it. Leaning down to speak to Gabriel, Ivan said, “I’d go for Balthazar, he’s the only one that even sounds vaguely believable.” He shrugged, then sniffed. “Then again, Garth’s put his money on Virgil - just for laughs though, it’s not serious.”  
Gabriel relaxed, realising that what was going on was nothing to do with the day's earlier events. This wasn't about angel Grace, about Death (whose presence in Zamreer was supposedly a secret) - or about Dean and Castiel.  
“Do I gotta ask, or is it beyond my understanding?” Gabriel asked, fully aware he desperately needed to be heading to the stables, or to Cupid, Missouri, even Death - anyone who could help him prepare Dean and Castiel for prompt departure.  
“Eh,” Ivan shrugged, massive shoulders almost hitting his ears. “Something about the Captain’s girlfriend being a man. Hilarious, right?”  
Gabriel’s stomach flipped. “Who’s telling that story?”  
“Virgil. Balthazar’s got his head screwed on right, I’ll tell you that. Pff, like Winchester could bear to look at anything that didn’t have a pair of boobs on it.”  
Gabriel laughed nervously. “Heh, yeah, that’s a doozy.”  
Some of the men started calling to Virgil and Balthazar, daring one or both of them to attack. They’d been prowling in a circle, neither stepping forward. Virgil looked particularly smug, and Gabriel hated that he knew why.  
He swallowed and patted Ivan on the arm in farewell, backing away. Unless more information was revealed at some point, Dean and Castiel were safe for the time being. Balthazar was of course clueless as to the truth, and Virgil probably had no proof other than his word.  
Gabriel had to get a move on, anyway. He kept his eye on the small crowd as he left the courtyard, mind full of troubled thoughts.  
~x~  
Gabriel the horse managed to shrug, setting Bobby’s snoring off again.  
“I got a cart ready, not that anyone cared. Didn’t get used the way it was meant to be.”  
Castiel patted Gabriel’s rump sadly, hand sliding away again. “You know that we would have used it the way it was intended, given the chance.”  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
Sam looked between the two of them, Bobby in the middle. “So... where was the bloodshed?”  
“Patience, overly tall human,” Gabriel said to Sam. “I’m getting to that.”  
Sam smirked and tugged his grip tighter around his knees.  
~x~  
Gabriel returned to the courtyard almost half an hour later. He knew it had been too long, before he even got there. He could smell the blood.  
“Oh God, what happened?” he asked the only person around, a burly brown-haired man with a broom, and a sword on his belt that was almost the length of his leg.  
The man looked up from where he stood, sweeping sand around a pool of blood.  
“Wanna guess?”  
“Um, someone got stabbed.”  
“Big surprise,” the man said, going back to sweeping. “Don’t even know what this one was about, that girl didn’t look a bit like a man. I mean, sure, less bosom than you’d expect that Captain Winchester guy to go for, but―” he pointed a finger at Gabriel’s chest, “he goes for all sorts, right? I saw him with a red-head once. What a sight.”  
Gabriel gaped for a moment, then pressed, “Guy that got it in the gut, big tough guy, or weedy skinny pansy blonde guy?”  
The man narrowed his eyes. “Neither?”  
Gabriel sucked in a breath. “Who...?”  
“Uh, let’s see... muscles, dark hair, scruffy beard. Looks like a giant shaved bear.”  
“ _Ivan?_ ”  
The man shrugged a shoulder. “Sure.”  
Gabriel put a hand to the side of his head in despair. “How bad was it?”  
The man shrugged again, grunting. “He’s not dead, if that’s what you mean. Close to, I’d say.”  
“Infirmary?”  
“Yep.”  
Gabriel breathed a word of thanks and took a step the way he’d come, intent set on the infirmary now.  
But he was interrupted: “If you’re looking for everyone else, though, your skinny blonde dude or the nasty angry one... they’re all headed to look for the Captain. They all seemed pretty bent on getting there first. Looked a bit pissed off.”  
“Who looked pissed off?”  
“Eh, all of them.”  
Gabriel felt torn, yes, but he had made his decision before he took his next, deep, breath. “Thanks again. Stay outta trouble, there’s a shitstorm in the air.”  
The man looked on confusedly as Gabriel began to hurtle towards Dean’s bedroom.  
The truth was out there, somehow - as he’d known was inevitable. Dean and Castiel were in danger. Again.  
~x~  
Gabriel sighed, thick lips blowing a raspberry. ”And that’s where I’m leaving it, folks. Cassie, your turn.”  
Sam forced his eyes open from where they’d been drooping, tiredness taking hold. “No... wait, why’d you stop there?”  
“Because, overly tall human, this is where Castiel’s story should be told.”  
Sam looked between the horse and Castiel, the latter of whom was nodding. “But... there’s sex in it,” Sam said with trepidation. “Isn’t there?”  
Gabriel snorted a laugh, sides shaking Bobby so his head lolled back. “Blowjobs are more interesting, I swear by it.”  
Sam drew his lips back in a very peeved expression. “Oh God, please... Guhhh.”  
Castiel was smiling wickedly, hands clasped between his knees. He looked far too pleased.  
~x~  
“I’ll get a cart ready. You two stay outta sight, all right?” Gabriel said, already heading for the exit. “I’ll put a friends-only lock on the door.”  
Dean’s head fell back as he laughed, drawing Castiel forward and placing a long, ecstatic kiss on his mouth, both sighing as their lips met. They were leaving this city, that was an absolute definite now. They were going to travel. They could be together.  
“All right, all right,” Gabriel laughed. He patted both of them on the shoulder and went to open the door. He was halfway out when he caught Castiel looking up and nodding gratefully at him. Gabriel saluted him, then left.  
“Alone at last,” Dean sighed, still smiling. “Should we screw or pack first?”  
Castiel tilted his head, eyes roaming over to Dean’s wardrobe. “How long would packing take?”  
Dean shrugged. “Ten seconds.”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”  
Dean grinned and pushed away from Castiel’s chest, their hands still clasped as he tugged Castiel along with him. He led them to the wardrobe, opening the doors wide and peering down at the cataclysm that was his clothes storage.  
“Didn’t Cupid tidy that yesterday?”  
“Maybe.”  
“Have you even opened it since then?”  
Dean stared down at the wreckage. “It always looks like that.”  
Castiel pushed past his arm and stuck a hand inside, pulling out a crumpled pair of breeches. “How many of these would we need?”  
Dean hesitated, then let out a tiny laugh. “Guess you’d be wearing mine. ‘cause yours are in your bedroom.”  
Castiel met his eye, folding the material in his hands. “How many do you have?”  
Dean’s eye twitched. “Would you believe me if I said I had no friggin’ idea?”  
Castiel looked back to the tangle of clothes in the bottom of the wardrobe, absolutely no one thing recognisable from another. “I would believe you, yes.”  
“Okay, well,” Dean said, grabbing a handful of cloth, “Let’s just take everything.”  
“Do you have something to store these things in?”  
Dean blinked, taking a short breath. “Crap. I have like, a, a―” he dug around and withdrew a crumpled leather satchel. “One of these. It won’t fit much in it. Besides, Chevy and Lucifer are gonna have to carry everything, as well as food and water and... uh, both swords, some kind of shelter...”  
Dean suddenly looked quite fretful. “Okay, so this may take longer than ten seconds. I was just gonna grab a spare pair of breeches and a shirt.”  
“I have no clothes aside from what I was wearing this morning. I would rather never wear white again.”  
“That’s cool, man, you can just wear my stuff.”  
Castiel smiled secretly, head turned slightly away. He looked back, now smiling for a different reason. “You know, when we find that waterfall of yours - _ours_...”  
Dean shrugged. “Walking around naked’s a long way away, Cas. We should prepare for all the rest of the stuff.”  
“The travelling?”  
Dean grinned. “Yeah, that.”  
Castiel leaned into Dean’s shoulder, eyes half closed. “Where would you like to go, Dean?”  
Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel’s shoulder, sighing as he thought. ”Well, Evacéra’s a good start. I wanna see other cities, other cultures. From what I’ve heard, Zamreer’s pretty soulless compared to other places.”  
“You never left the city in all your life?”  
Dean shook his head. “I was at my parents’ village until I was seven... then here. Apart from Limn’mere, and one summer I spent at Bobby’s place in Evacéra - nope, never left. It’s been white walls and training all nineteen years long.”  
“That sounds miserable.”  
Dean shrugged. “Never knew anything else I wanted.”  
Castiel kissed his neck. “Now you do. I wonder...” he tilted his head, resting his cheek on Dean’s shoulder, “I wonder what the rest of the world is like.”  
“Probably not all white,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s hips in his hands. “More green stuff. Kings and queens and princesses, like in the stories we talked about.”  
Castiel shivered slightly, more from excitement than the fact he was wearing only his underthings in an expansive room with a hole in the window. Either way, he bent to find his discarded blue shirt and trousers from that morning, pulling them on. “I really do enjoy the thought of princes,” he said thoughtfully, as his shirt was tangling itself around his arms.  
Dean came forward to help him, setting the shirt the right way around. “Yeah, what’s with the royalty in the stories? Why can’t it just be, normal boy meets normal girl?”  
“Because then there is nothing special, it’s everyone’s love story.” Castiel straightened his shirt and continued, “When there is a prince, he’s what the girls desire. Because he’s handsome and smart and rich.”  
“I’m handsome and smart and rich,” Dean grinned.  
Castiel put his hands on Dean’s chest and leaned in close. “I know.” He kissed him, gentle and slow.  
Dean nudged the kiss away, asking, “So... I’m a prince.”  
“Yes.”  
“And you’re my... princess...?”  
“Prince. I’m also a prince. I’m a prince from another kingdom where everyone is nasty and cruel, and you saved me.”  
Dean looked like he was trying not to blush. “So... these princes. They―”  
“Meet in the dead of night, because their kingdoms would never allow two men to be together,” Castiel said, suddenly passionate. “They want to kiss. They want to touch but they’re both scared.”  
Dean followed Castiel’s guiding hand to the middle of the room, fingertips trailing down his wrist as they stilled.  
Dean swallowed, eyes on Castiel’s lips. “Prince Dean has to marry a girl, it’s the law.”  
Castiel was flushed with excitement, eyes shining. “He doesn’t want to marry a girl. He wants to make love to a man. He wants...” Castiel actually gasped, blushing hot. “He wants to fuck Prince Castiel.”  
Castiel knew Dean had never seen him so riveted by his own words. He loved the stories so much, and he knew Dean could see that. Dean was breathing heavier, licking his lips.  
“The first few times they meet. At first they just talk,” Dean said, very quietly, “They talk about their kingdoms and their laws... neither of them want to rule. They want to run away.”  
“They sit a little closer... Every night, they sit closer to each other, and soon they’re so close that they can... touch...” Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s wrist, fingertips stroking.  
“Prince Dean pulls his hand away,” Dean said, tugging his whole body back.  
Castiel automatically reached for him, but smiled, then drew his face into a theatrical expression of woe. “Prince Castiel thinks he’s done something wrong.”  
Dean hesitated. He gulped, looking down at the floor. “Uh... Pr- Prince Dean didn’t think... he didn’t mean to...”  
Castiel smiled, stepping back into Dean’s space and running his fingers back to Dean’s pulse point in his wrist. “Prince Castiel understands that now.”  
Dean swallowed, eyes flicking up and down Castiel’s face. “Prince Dean is a stubborn idiot.”  
Castiel laughed gently, shaking his head. “Prince Castiel doesn’t care.”  
“Prince Dean... really, really... seriously, really fucking wants Prince Castiel. I’m not kidding, he thinks about him at night when he gets home, he tosses and turns wishing Prince Cas would make the first move so Dean doesn’t have to.”  
“Prince Cas...” Castiel took a slow breath in, “has never been in love before, he doesn’t know how to ‘make a move’.”  
“In love so quickly?” Dean frowned. “They haven’t even kissed.”  
Castiel looked back at Dean, confused. “I just said he’s never been in love. He doesn’t know how long it’s meant to take.”  
“Well... I mean, yeah, sometimes it’s instant, but...” Dean sucked his lower lip for a second, “it took Prince Dean way longer to know what he was... you know, feeling.”  
“Confused.”  
Dean nodded. “Dudes are confusing.”  
Castiel smiled. “So... Prince Dean and Prince Castiel sit together, very close...”  
“Prince Dean had a boner,” Dean said quickly. He blushed, but it passed just as rapidly as it had arrived. “He just really likes Prince Cas, okay? He gets him really hot when he talks, or when he laughs, or his eyes just... keep on looking at Dean. Really... fucking... attracted.”  
Castiel studied Dean’s lips, watching how they shivered slightly, wet and parted. “Prince Castiel sees the tightness in Prince Dean’s trousers.” He flicked his eyes to Dean’s, smiling as he saw how dark they’d become. “He wants to ask about it, but he knows Prince Dean will―”  
“He’d just take off. And he wouldn’t come back.”  
Castiel nodded. “So Prince Castiel sits even closer, puts his hand... on Dean’s leg.” He couldn’t quite reach Dean’s thigh as they stood so close, but his hand instead found the inside of Dean’s hipbone, rubbing very gently. Dean sighed, so Castiel knew it wasn’t a dead loss.  
“Prince Dean tenses up, he’s like... he wants to roll over, make Cas touch him. Put his boner in his hand and just...” Dean moaned under his breath, eyes closed. “But his whole kingdom is behind him, if even one person found out... they’d both be killed or banished or whatever it is people do to guys who fuck other guys.”  
“Prince Castiel isn’t even thinking about that,” Castiel whispered, fingers brushing Dean’s shirt out of the way as his hand slid lower. “He just wants to let Dean know the pleasure of his touch.”  
Dean’s eyes were still closed, savouring the image in his mind, as Castiel continued, “So Prince Castiel slides his hand... he undoes Prince Dean’s trousers. Prince Dean doesn’t move, and Castiel puts his hand... here. He squeezes―” Dean moaned out loud.  
“No... no, they have to be very, very quiet.” Castiel’s eyelids flickered, biting his lip. “They can’t moan out their pleasures. They have to hide and keep their hands over their mouths, never taking their clothes off completely in case someone finds them.”  
Dean stifled his heavy breathing with his hand, swallowing. “Prince Dean lies back, he can’t fight it, he wants it too badly.”  
Castiel grabbed Dean and shoved him to the bed, avoiding the wooden box at its foot. Dean grunted as he lay back, bouncing on the mattress as he sat up on his elbows. He watched Castiel hovering over him, feet still on the floor.  
“Prince Dean needs to fuck Prince Castiel. Right now.”  
Castiel nodded in agreement. “But they can’t be naked.”  
“I thought Prince Castiel liked being naked?”  
Castiel shrugged, smirking. “He likes wearing clothes to make love, sometimes. He likes how dirty they can get.”  
Dean let out a puff of hot air, heat on his cheeks. “Actually... Prince Dean’s changed his mind.”  
“He has?”  
Dean shoved himself off the bed, his own cock in his hand, making Castiel back up a few steps into the middle of the floor again. “Prince Dean wants to do something.”  
“He does?”  
Dean nodded. “He’s been thinking about it for ages. I - he... no, I. Not Prince Dean. Just Dean. Dean’s wanted to do it. He - I tried before but... I never really got it down, you know?”  
Castiel shook his head, then nodded, then shook again. He didn’t know what was happening. “Okay?”  
Dean let out a sharp breath, gulping. “All right, um... Prince Dean? He’s gonna try this. Be patient with him.”  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Prince Castiel is very a tolerant man, but he’s not sure...?”  
Dean locked his eyes to Castiel’s, then slowly lowered himself to his knees, hands on Castiel’s hips guiding him.  
“Oh,” Castiel said. “You want to... suck...?”  
Dean nodded, pupils blown. “Really want to suck Prince Cas off. Even before we kissed.”  
Castiel began to undo his trousers, but was taken over by Dean’s fingers, Dean not even looking at what he was doing. His eyes were on Castiel’s, breathing like he was in the middle of love-making, not the start.  
Dean glanced down as Castiel slipped free of his breeches, straightening out now that he had the room. Castiel could see Dean’s lips quivering, tongue lapping at his lower lip, trying to gauge how to start.  
“I’m... I’m just gonna,” Dean sighed, fingertip sliding around Castiel’s cockhead. He pressed a kiss to the tip, then pulled back and licked his lips again, holding in a low moan. “Fuck.”  
“Do you need help?” Castiel asked, smiling a little.  
“It’s not that, smart-ass. I just... I wanna suck the whole thing. But I never managed that before. I keep choking and drooling and it’s gross.”  
“I always found it enjoyable.”  
Dean looked up at him, unsure. “The weird gagging noise, though. That’s not cool, man. I’ve had girls make that noise on me, it’s not hot.”  
“You said nothing about it the first time I coughed.”  
Dean gulped, eyes flicking to his hand as his thumb circled Castiel’s crown. “Yeah... well... That was you, it was... it was hot. Not the noise, just that you were tryin’ so hard.”  
Castiel smoothed a hand over Dean’s hair, letting it flop back to its natural spiky state once his fingers passed. “I don’t mind what noise you make. But...” he smirked. “Prince Dean really should keep quiet, the gardeners are around this late at night, they might hear us.”  
Of course, it was just gone midday, and they were in a bedroom, but Dean still seemed quite taken with the fantasy. He sighed, eyes falling closed again. His hand stroked one long pull down Castiel’s length, making Castiel breathe harder, excited.  
Dean tugged on himself as he kneeled, fingers inside his trousers. He then let go, shuffling on his knees, close enough that his lips were pressed to Castiel’s hip. He pulled his head back and whispered, “Here goes nothin’, Prince Cas.”  
Castiel threw his head back and breathed like he was running, heavy and rough on his throat. He tried very hard not to moan, but it was so tempting; Dean’s mouth had engulfed most of his length, already setting up a clumsy rhythm. He was wet on the inside, saliva trailing down Castiel’s flesh as he kept his teeth out of the way. Dean whimpered through his nose, hands slipping wetly on Castiel’s base, wringing him upward into his mouth.  
“Oh - oh, Dean―”  
Dean sucked his lips away, gasping. “Pr-Prince Dean.”  
“You like it - that much?”  
Dean mouthed Castiel down again, further down than before. He sucked once, hard, and Castiel grunted. Sighing, Dean pulled off, swallowed deeply, and nodded. “Yeah. I like being your prince.” He caught Castiel’s eye and winked.  
Castiel bit his lower lip and groaned quietly as Dean took him back in. His tongue swirled, then switched to a lapping motion, driving itself under Castiel’s cockhead, crown pulling back from the shaft as Dean forced his tongue up. While Dean couldn’t suck more than a few inches, the pressure he was trying for was exquisite; Castiel had to bite down on his lip keenly enough that he could feel the indentations it left. His breath was still coming like the horses’ did after a long run.  
Dean turned his head and moaned, mouth full, eyes falling shut. One hand squeezed and rubbed at Castiel’s base, the skin bunching gently between the side of his fist and Dean’s lips. The other hand had left Castiel, and he assumed it had gone to relieve Dean’s own arousal.  
Castiel loved that Dean became aroused just from pleasuring Castiel, the touch he needed being only that of relief, not to get started. Every time Castiel had started to make love to Dean, Dean was already well on his way to being fully hard.  
Dean’s mouth was another inch closer to Castiel’s base now, he was holding back a cough, and every few motions had to withdraw to swallow, panting a little before going back down. Castiel raised a hand to his mouth and bit on his knuckles, holding in a desperate, moaning hiss. He wanted to cry out, to groan as loud as anything. He was sure Prince Castiel felt the same. Together, they knew the danger of being found. So, Castiel stayed quiet.  
Dean sucked himself free and then stood up suddenly, eyes hungry with lust as he pulled Castiel’s fist away from his face, lips finding Castiel’s, hands in his hair. He was wet - wet hands, wet face, and he tasted like Castiel’s pre-come and his musky skin. Castiel uttered a soft sound and kissed harder, teeth clashing lightly, a frown creasing Castiel’s brow.  
Their cocks were brushing, Castiel’s hot and wet to Dean’s slightly slickened as they slid. Saliva transferred as they pressed to each other, lip and tongue and wetness. One of Dean’s hands fell to Castiel’s rear, sliding inside his breeches and massaging his ass, one finger moving to push between the crease. Castiel growled into the kiss as a finger pressed his hole - not rubbing, just pressing down, and hard.  
Castiel’s growl turned into a hiss as Dean’s hand pulled away, but the hiss was lost to a quiet moan, as soon as Dean’s hand found Castiel’s cock once more, running a slick fist down its length, twisting at the base.  
“More,” Castiel whispered, with a commanding tone in his voice. “Suck all the way down.”  
Dean looked both terrified and thrilled at the prospect, licking his lips. “It’s a - a challenge, right?”  
Castiel smirked. “Of course. If you win―”  
“I get to choose where you come.”  
Castiel blinked slowly, smirk curling into a grin. “If that’s what you want?”  
Dean nodded, eyes on Castiel’s as he lowered himself back down. His neck was only level with Castiel’s cock before he paused, however.  
“What - what is it?” Castiel asked, looking down at himself, swollen and red, veins standing out.  
Dean looked up at him, something unrecognisable in his eyes. Castiel could see why he had paused, but he wasn’t sure why Dean looked like... that.  
Dean’s eyes fell back to Castiel’s cock, lowering himself properly to his knees. Resting on Castiel’s cockhead, caught there when Dean had knelt, was the glass pendant, so light, almost weightless. The teardrop was slung to one side, moving ever so gently as Dean’s chest heaved his breaths.  
Dean and Castiel locked eyes, and Castiel nodded. Dean put his mouth back on Castiel, sliding down, around his cock, and around the pendant. Castiel panted, unable to remove his gaze from the sight; Dean’s mouth open so wide, all around him, lips pulled back - then pushed out as he drew back again, wet all over. The pendant seemed to glow as they touched, lines of saliva coating the chain as Dean ran his mouth over it, again and again, faster each time.  
Dean seemed to have given up on going deeper, focusing instead on using his mouth the way he could. Both men grunted, Castiel biting his lip endlessly now, eyes going between watching Dean’s mouth move, and flicking up to the ceiling, gasping.  
“Pr-... mmh, Prince Dean―” Castiel broke off to laugh. “It sounds silly.”  
Dean made a wet noise as he pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Prince Dean likes it when you use his name.”  
Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, mouth open. He nodded, eyes glancing to his cock, hinting. Dean took the hint and slid - oh―  
“Deeeean,” Castiel whined, mouth slack as he fought for breath, lips not sure how to move. “Again, do it again―”  
Dean fingered the pendant and opened his mouth again, managing another deep swallow, drool trailing in a thick line into Castiel’s trousers. Dean paused with his mouth an inch from Castiel’s base, jaw shivering with exertion, frown between his eyebrows. Castiel moaned.  
Dean licked his way back up, saliva shimmering on his face as he gasped for breath again. “Shh,” he forced out, trying to keep his breath quiet, “someone might h-hear...”  
Castiel knew there was no-one around. He loved how Dean wanted to play into his fantasy. He’d been expecting it to just lead them to the love-making and then be forgotten... but Dean kept it up, and Castiel wanted him to do exactly that.  
“Prince Dean, we only have a f-few minutes until... Until...?”  
Dean grinned, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Until the kings come by on their night-time walk. We’re going to be found out.”  
Castiel flushed hot. “We have t- have to―”  
“You have to come before then,” Dean breathed, lips on Castiel’s cockhead, dragging pre-come against his slit. “The magic pendant... only keeps us safe for so long.”  
Castiel watched him toy with the pendant, wet and shiny with Dean’s spit. “You have to suck it... for its magic... to―”  
Dean set the glass on his tongue, so Castiel could see how it slid to the middle, resting in the dip of shivering muscle. Dean closed his mouth around it, glass chain hanging from each side of his mouth. Their eyes fixed on each other, and Castiel watched as Dean swallowed, then pulled his tongue back, pendant slipping so it rested on his lower lip.  
Castiel’s eyelids flickered, and he lowered himself to his knees as well, gaze flicking between Dean’s mouth and his eyes. They kissed, chain feeling thinly abrasive against soft lips. Dean sighed, opening his mouth and letting Castiel’s tongue steal the pendant from him, tangling the chain between their mouths. It tingled in Castiel’s mouth, and made a tiny clinking sound, glass touching glass. It was so delicate, the teardrop so smooth. It felt exactly the same in Castiel’s mouth as it looked around Dean’s neck; it pulsed with the sheen of the stars, bright like Dean’s soul. The imperfections in it only made it more beautiful.  
Dean rolled his lips, the chain slipping out; now only the white glass teardrop was set between their lips - they both kissed it, sighing. Dean’s touch found Castiel’s cock, fingertips running down veins, nails scratching through Castiel’s wiry hair at the base. Castiel grunted and tried to press closer, to make Dean take him in hand.  
Dean’s eyelids flickered on Castiel’s face, and Castiel lowered his head an inch to look at him: Dean was drowning in lust, his cheeks coloured brightly, eyes intent. He was all for Castiel.  
“Stand up again,” Dean breathed, voice rich with emotional layers. The pendant slipped from his lips, shaking as it fell back to his chest.  
Castiel pressed a last kiss to his lips and pushed himself back to his feet, gathering his trousers at his hip so they didn’t fall. Dean took Castiel’s buttocks in a firm grip and wrenched him close, nose pressing into his skin, breathing his scent deeply. Dean groaned, nudging and licking.  
Castiel reached a hand down and took the pendant back in his grip; it was warm from their mouths, only slightly wet still. He wrapped it around his hand like rosary beads, and slid his fingers through Dean’s hair, combing. Dean sighed and nudged his head into the hand, licking at the wrist.  
Dean caught Castiel’s eye once more and lowered his open mouth around him, the wetness and heat flooding back. Castiel was aware of his own flesh, how it pressed into Dean’s mouth; he could feel his own shape somehow. Dean made a suckling noise and pulled himself down by his own swallow, Castiel almost able to feel the back of his throat this time.  
“Almost... You’re almost―”  
The bedroom door opened, and Gabriel fell inside, panting hard. He raised a hand, indicating they should give him a second to catch his breath. Dean couldn’t stop sucking, too intent on making Castiel come. Castiel still raked his hair, pendant dangling on Dean’s forehead.  
“You - you guys, you gotta―” Gabriel stood up, catching sight of what he’d walked in to. “Oh, crap, that’s... Wow,” he added, frowning at Dean. “That’s impressive, dude.”  
Dean moaned.  
“You’re blown, guys - ehk! I mean, your cover. Your cover is blown. You gotta go.”  
Dean sucked his mouth free, gulping. “Wha-... what?”  
Gabriel was by the window now, looking down into the street. “I think it was Virgil, there was a fight, one of my friends is hurt - you gotta go, there’s people after you.”  
Dean gaped, still on his knees. Castiel’s hand was still in his hair.  
“Now, dudes, _now!_ ” Gabriel gestured upward frantically, trying to make Dean stand up. Dean clicked into action, scrambling to his feet, panting as he stuffed himself into his trousers, still hard. Castiel whimpered as he tried to do the same, but was too sore and far too aroused to be able to touch himself and not be pleasured by it.  
Dean crowded into his space and tried to help him, attempting to hold him in a way that wasn’t going to make him excited. Of course, it was hopeless, and Castiel was gasping the entire time until Dean had buttoned him up again. They looked at each other, both dismayed.  
“Hurry the hell up, I think there’s a mob!”  
Dean squinted. “They sent a mob after us?”  
Gabriel shrugged widely, eyes desperate. “I dunno, there was a group of guys fighting about you and then I come back and one guy’s stabbed and they’re headed to find you, we gotta go!”  
Dean nodded and shook his head, realising they hadn’t packed a single thing. He hesitated for a second, before Castiel grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the broken window, trying to avoid the glass shards that littered the wood.  
“We have to leave this way,” Castiel said, scouring the street. “There is only a single way out of your quarters and it’s too long.”  
Dean nodded, reaching for a rope that was tied behind a curtain. He flashed a grin to Castiel, unrolling it. “Always be prepared.”  
Castiel sighed in relief at an easy escape, and opened the window closest to where they stood. “Gabriel, is there somewhere we can go?”  
Gabriel nodded. “Cart in the stable.”  
“We have to find Death,” Castiel said, watching Dean tie the rope to his bedpost then run back. “I can’t leave the city without his power.”  
Dean nodded, and passed Gabriel the rope. “Who’s going first?”  
Gabriel bugged his eyes and swatted a hand. “No time to decide, just get the frick outta here!”  
Dean took the hint and wrapped his hands around the rope, climbing onto the window frame and turning so he could lower himself down backwards. Castiel leaned out of the window to watch how he did it: feet walking down the wall, hands slipping down the rope as he went.  
In a time like this, Dean’s fear of heights was the least of his worries. Castiel could see the lines of panic on his face, but he was not looking down, eyes trained only on the part of the wall he passed.  
Gabriel patted Castiel on the back before Dean was even halfway down. “Now you, bro.”  
Castiel took a deep breath and copied exactly what Dean had done, reversing his way out of the window. The rope was sturdy, but burned his hands as he put his weight on it. He wasn’t quite strong enough for this.  
“Gabe- Gabriel, I can’t―” He began to hyperventilate, hands hanging on for dear life, burning like fire as he tried not to slip.  
“Yes you can, Cas, you gotta - shit, they’re here―”  
Castiel could indeed see a group of people bursting inside Dean’s room, men he recognised from the Guard. There was Virgil, who looked extremely pleased, and Balthazar, who looked very much like he’d rather be anywhere else. There were maybe ten other people, and it was only when Castiel could no longer see them that he realised he was climbing down, hands working by themselves out of pure fear. Gabriel was leaning out of the window with a terrified expression on his face, willing Castiel to go faster.  
Castiel was only a man’s height down before Gabriel swung himself onto the rope, clambering faster than Castiel. He would not be able to overtake, nor get far enough from the window before―  
A hand reached out of the window and took Gabriel by the scruff of his neck, trying to shake him free.  
“Gabe!” Dean shouted from below, Castiel tried to turn but couldn’t see anything but the height - it didn’t bother him, but the knowledge that he still had so far to go was daunting. And he couldn’t leave Gabriel.  
Gabriel was struggling, unable to set himself free from the man’s hold, even by magic - both he and Castiel knew that loosening the hand on Gabriel would send both himself and Castiel plummeting down, neither having enough grip to hold steady.  
Castiel raised a shaky hand, weight balanced between his bare feet on the rope, and his other hand. He was not stable, a good blast of wind down the street would make him fall. With his raised hand, he spread his fingers toward the struggling men above him, and sent a surge of energy to the attacking man’s shoulder. He was blasted back like someone had kicked him in the face - and Gabriel fell sideways―  
Gabriel only dropped five feet or so before Castiel caught him in a cushion of air, causing a thunderclap so unexpected and forceful that a shower of glass cascaded from the window above, raining down onto the floating Gabriel, and onto Castiel’s head. He felt a tiny slice down his cheek, but in the midst of things, it was nothing.  
“Cas!” Dean shouted, muffled, as he’d likely turned away to shelter his head from the falling glass.  
“I’m fine!” Castiel shouted back, not able to turn around. He began to descend again, Gabriel floating with him. The window filled with men’s faces, expressions all between confused and curious, some angry.  
As soon as they set eyes on Castiel’s face, and Dean’s below, the simple realisation that they were running away confirmed what Dean and Castiel had been doing together. It wasn’t a difficult leap, not if they already knew the rumours. Castiel knew there would be rumours, after their stunt this morning.  
All of these men were here to hurt Dean and Castiel.  
~x~  
“Sam, you still with us?”  
Sam jerked awake, slapping a line of drool from the side of his mouth. “Wuh?”  
Castiel smiled slowly. “How long have you been awake?”  
Sam blinked very hard. “Three seconds?”  
“I mean this morning.”  
“Oh.” Sam rubbed his eyes, feeling them twinge and sting. “An hour or so after dawn, you just flew off, then the next thing I knew, Dean was feeding me fish.”  
Castiel was leaning on Gabriel’s side now too, next to Bobby. “That was more than eighteen hours ago,” Castiel told Sam. “You should sleep.”  
Sam grunted and nodded.  
“Sit beside me,” Castiel offered, prodding Bobby. “Bobby can keep watch now, I think the rest of us need some rest.”  
“Dunno what you’re talking about, I’m fine,” Gabriel said, yawning. Sam had never seen a horse yawn before. It was interesting.  
Bobby snorted himself awake, arm flailing as he dropped a foot or so into the pit, wobbling himself to his feet. “Goddamn you, what is it now?”  
“Someone with a keen eye needs to keep a lookout for Dean,” Castiel said. “Would you please wake us when he gets here so we can cover the trap?”  
Bobby grumbled under his breath, but reached out an arm for Sam to help him out of the hole they’d dug. “What is it with you idjits, any time I’m in some messed-up crisis it’s to do with you. And it always ends up with me―” he grunted loudly as Sam heaved him onto the snow, “―gettin’ no sleep at all.”  
Sam smiled sympathetically at the old man, patting his shoulder. “You had, what, four hours? Besides, if you doze off, Gabriel’s snoring will wake you up.”  
Bobby glared at the horse, who had indeed started snoring loudly. It sounded much like a small dog repeatedly being run over by a cart.  
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, slumping his way around the pit and collapsing beside Castiel, who smiled at him and leaned closer, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder and closing his eyes. Sam watched him for a bit, then looked to Bobby, who was also staring.  
“That angel gets cushy pretty quick, don’t he?”  
“I think I smell like Dean,” Sam said quietly.  
Castiel snuffled. “You smell similar. And you just have a comfortable shoulder. Go to sleep.”  
Sam tugged some of Castiel’s travelling cloak over himself, sighing. “‘Night, Cas.”  
Castiel opened his eyes and looked at Sam, startled. “You... you sound a lot like him, though. F-for a second, I thought...”  
Sam wasn’t sure what to feel, as Castiel’s eyes glimmered with tears in the firelight. “I’m not him, Cas.”  
“I know that,” Castiel said sharply, almost angrily. His expression softened again, and he sucked on his lower lip, mouth turned down at the corners. He didn’t meet Sam’s eye again as he whispered, “Just go to sleep.”  
Sam looked to Bobby, who shrugged. Gabriel snored, and Sam closed his eyes.  
~  
Sam was kicked in the leg as Gabriel stood up, and both he and Castiel fell back with a shout. Castiel gasped and sat straight up, eyes wide. Sam blinked hard, his hand on his face.  
“Morning?”  
“We got less than an hour till dawn,” Bobby said. “You hear that?”  
Castiel scrambled to his feet and held out a hand for Sam to take. A wolf howled in the distance.  
“Yes,” Castiel breathed. “It’s him.”  
Sam shook snow from his clothes, hands clammy and cold - he was marginally warmer on the side the fire had been, but that had long since died out.  
The sun was far from rising, but the glow of dawn was evident. The sky was bright enough that it was no longer pitch-black, and Sam could actually see the whiteness of snow all around them, and could determine distances. There were mountain ranges around them, dark and shadowed still. The snow was smooth and undisturbed in all directions, save closer to the forest, where black rocks stood out.  
A wolf howled again, and yes, Sam could definitely recognise the exact sound now. Granted, all wolves sounded the same most of the time, even Castiel said he had trouble sometimes - but there was a particular way this one cried out. It began with a soft, echoing click, that had barely carried before, but this time, being so close and out in the open, it was noticeable. It was followed by a long, light note, that became a deeper pair of notes, one after the other, then it raised up again, and carried through to the end. It was flawless, not a break in the sound. It sounded like Dean, calling for Castiel.  
“Every time,” Castiel said quietly, voice clear in the cold air, “Every time I hear him howling... I want to call back, I want to cry out his name... Sometimes when there’s nobody but him and I... I can do it. My voice sounds so terrible.” He shook his head, eyes down. “I sound like a mourning widow, or like Gabriel when he―”  
Gabriel snorted angrily, pawing the snow. Castiel stopped the sentence abruptly, swallowing. “I barely recognise myself.”  
“You sound heartbroken,” Sam said, gently. “People do that.”  
Castiel nodded. The wolf howled again, and Castiel’s face crumpled into a grimace.  
“Do it,” Sam said. “Call him.”  
Castiel looked up sharply, shaking his head. “No... no, I can’t, not with people.” He looked over to Bobby and the horses with trepidation, then back to Sam. “I can’t let you hear that.”  
Sam pressed his lip up in an accepting gesture, then nodded. “All right. We’re gonna put the trap together, cover it with snow or something. You’re sure he’ll come this way?”  
Castiel was unsure. “If he sees me, he will. But―” he scanned the area, seeing the cart and the dark shapes of other people. “He might not. We need to get him in the cage, it will be difficult.”  
Sam sighed, accepting everything. “Maybe go out further, so you’re not so close.” He pointed to the flat expanse of white before them, layered with the night’s snow. “Then lead him back here.”  
“Okay,” Castiel said, patting Sam’s hand for both of their reassurance.  
Sam turned back and helped Bobby cover the trap with wood, then began to kick snow over it. It was badly camouflaged, but if Cas could successfully lead Dean him there it would not matter too much. If they got Dean compliant enough, they might not need the trap at all, and could simply lead him to the cage.  
Looking up, Sam saw Castiel wandering out onto the flatter expanse of snow. Castiel paused, looking at his feet. He turned back to Sam, calling to him, “This is ice!”  
Sam felt a rush of apprehension. Ice could be dangerous, unless it was steady. He reasoned that it could be fine - it had been well below freezing all night, clearly cold enough to freeze a lake over. The area was quite large, right up to the rocks where the white petered out into jagged black shadows.  
Castiel had already moved on, carefully walking to the middle of the lake.  
Dean’s howl came once more, and before Sam could anticipate it, Castiel’s knees bent and he lowered himself, screaming.  
“ _DEEEAN!_ ”  
Castiel had been right. His voice was full of emotion and pain, not a sound Sam had ever wished to hear. He put a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Somehow just that sound had instilled such feeling in his heart. It was unbearable.  
Bobby had a fist on his lips, shaking his head. “God-damn you, Meg. God- _damn_ you.”  
Sam sobbed, trying to push down an unexpected surge of tears. He’d always felt for the two men, for his brother and his new friend - but the utter misery their separation had caused in them... Sam never thought he would feel this much for two other people.  
“ _DEEEEAANN!_ ”  
Sam clenched his hands, fingernails running scratches down his cheek. It hurt physically to listen to. The sound echoed around the valley, the emotion in it seeming to intensify with every reverberation. Sam’s insides burned hot, then cold, twisting and flipping uncomfortably. He wished it would stop. He didn’t want Castiel to feel like this.  
“Bob- Bobby, we have to... we have to break this curse,” he said, voice heavy. “This isn’t right.”  
“Don’t I know it,” Bobby sighed. “Oh, don’t I know it.”  
The wolf’s howl came closer again, almost at the rocks, where Sam could see a movement, maybe the snout of a wolf, maybe fur. It was black against black, hardly distinguishable.  
“DE-HE- _HEEEAN!_ ”  
Castiel was shaking, clearly trying very hard not to collapse onto his knees. Something about seeing Dean as a wolf - it was disturbing, for obvious reasons. The wolf barked, a sound that was exactly like a dog’s. His tail was wagging as he made his way down the rocks, a black unmistakably wolfish shape against the bright snow.  
He was making little noises as he came, snuffling and jabbering, like he was talking. Sam almost laughed as he imagined it was Dean’s voice, muttering something like, “You’ll never guess what I caught, this gigantic rabbit - almost ran off, but I caught it. Because I’m awesome.”  
Dean reached the edge of the lake, slowing as his paws tested the flat surface. He must have deemed it safe, as he started to run towards Castiel, feet padding easily one in front of the other. His tail was wagging still, and Castiel crouched down with open arms to welcome him, still twenty feet away.  
“Come on, Dean,” Sam said in a whisper. “Come o―”  
The ice broke under Dean’s feet and he was dragged under by his own weight, claws scrabbling at the ice, unable to gain any hold as the snow was packed too loosely―  
“NO!” Sam screamed, watching Castiel run forward to Dean. With a desperate glance to Bobby, Sam grabbed Sabbath from Chevy’s saddlebag, and the rope Bobby handed him, and ran out onto the ice, with no care to how weak it seemed under his feet.  
Castiel was crawling forward to Dean, still some distance away. The wolf thrashed in the water, barking and yelping - the water had to be terribly cold, he could be dead in minutes.  
“Lie down!” Bobby yelled, and Sam immediately took his advice as the ground swayed dangerously under him. The sword clanked on the ice, snow brushed away as the breaking ice rocked, cold under Sam’s hands, sharp as he made the next stretch of ice.  
Dean was crying out, but Castiel reached him now, grasping his paws in his hands, trying to pull him back.  
“Dean!” Sam yelled, crawling on his hands and knees, trying to get there faster.  
“Help me, Sam!” Castiel shouted, not turning around. His gaze was transfixed on the flailing Dean, whose fur was soaked through and flat on his body, water and ice splashing out around him.  
Castiel couldn’t pull him up, and Dean was scratching at him helplessly. His wolf mind had no way of knowing who was help and who was danger. Sam was almost there now, rope tangling his legs - he kicked it free, throwing it around the sword. He tied it in a loop, no time to work out if it was done right. He just needed an anchor before he reached the weaker ice.  
He shoved it into the lake, hearing the ice split, but it held. He took the rope in hand and swept it around himself, across his shoulders. He inched out, closer and closer to Castiel and the wolf.  
“Sam!” Castiel cried, turning this time. His eyes were wide with fear, just like the wolf’s.  
“I’m coming,” Sam said, reaching out a hand to help Castiel. Castiel refused his pull, instead lowering himself closer to Dean, gasping.  
“Help him!” he shouted, grabbing at Dean’s fur, but it was too slippery to hold on to. Dean’s legs were all over the place as he panicked, not enough space or strength to pull himself up.  
Sam got as close as he dared, one hand grabbing for one of Dean’s legs. It was so cold, it was colder than the snow. It was the coldest thing Sam had ever touched. Dean had only seconds left before he froze to death.  
Sam wrenched himself ever closer, wrapping his whole arm around the wolf, unable to think of any other way to take hold of him - this was a mistake. Dean lashed and growled, seeing Sam as another threat, just like the cold water. With a fast sweep of a paw, he knocked Sam right through the surface beside him.  
“ _Sam!_ ”  
Sam gasped as the icy water hit him, lungs already shutting down. His throat was tight like someone was strangling him - there was heat on him, claws, blood - Dean was clawing at his chest in blind panic.  
Sam gritted his teeth and took Dean by the throat, trying to stop him. Dean whined, head thrown back - Sam pushed him up onto the ice, his back legs kicking Sam in the face and pummelling him with a whip of a tail that was unrecognisable as living flesh, it was too cold. It was like being hit with a block of ice.  
“Dean,” Castiel sighed, grappling Dean so he could collapse onto the ice, surface rocking sharply beside Sam’s face. Now he was splashing like Dean, in full-on survival mode. He couldn’t think, he was beyond thinking.  
“Sam, take my hand!” Castiel shouted, grabbing one of Sam’s arms. Sam rattled a breath and took hold of Castiel’s woollen shirt, feeling himself wrenched two feet up, smacking his whole body down on the ice. He couldn’t breathe, everything was gone. He was so heavy, even his eyelids―  
“SAM!”  
He felt a slap on his cheek, hot as fire, blazing with magic. He breathed again. Easily. He breathed like he had done minutes before, only worrying about how chilly the air seemed after snow. He wasn’t freezing any more.  
The sky was like a cerulean dome above them, the last of the night stars twinkling.  
“Cas?”  
“Sam, help me - help me get him to Bobby...”  
Sam rolled over, coughing. He was still in shock, and was shaking violently. Castiel lay there, collapsed; curled beside him was Dean, black fur soaked through, but breathing normally. Sam coughed again, deep and forced.  
He took Dean’s legs in his shaking hands. Castiel looked up at him, snow on his face. Sam nodded, and together they hefted Dean with an arm each, crawling their way back to Bobby, who paced at the side of the ice, knowing it was suicide to step any closer.  
Snow caught on Dean’s fur, and he rocked unsteadily over icy lines. Sam kept grabbing him and pulling him closer, following the line of rope back to the shore. The wolf whined, and huffed, but made no move to escape.  
Castiel was crying, trying to keep it quiet, but tears dripped off his nose, too salty to freeze before they hit the snow and ice.  
“It’s gonna be okay, Cas,” Sam sighed. “You’re both going to be fine.”  
Castiel nodded, wanting to believe it.  
They made the bank without another problem, Castiel growling with relief as they touched solid ground. The snow beneath them seemed almost warm here.  
Castiel couldn’t even stand up when Sam did, only moving closer to his wolf, arms in his wet fur. He cried into him, pulling him close.  
“We have to live as human beings, Bobby,” he sobbed. “This cannot go on, we have to... we have to live as humans.” Castiel raised his head, face wet with water and snow and tears. “Our lives... are in your hands.”  
Bobby nodded, knowing it was true.  
Sam patted Bobby on the shoulder, and nodded to Castiel too. “We’re gonna make this right. We promise.”  
Castiel smiled weakly and then curled himself back into Dean.  
“Come on,” Bobby said, flicking a hand at Sam, indicating they were to move to the trap. “I don’t think Castiel is an any mood to put his wolf in a cage.”  
“No,” Sam agreed. “They could.... We could put them both in the trap anyway. So they can have some privacy. We stay up here.”  
Bobby considered the two men, lying side-by-side in the snow, one weeping into the dark fur of the other. He nodded.  
~  
“You good now?” Bobby patted Sam on the head, and Sam looked up and nodded. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, looking down at his chest.  
“It’s gonna scar, isn’t it?”  
Bobby sighed, taking another look at the lines cut down Sam’s front, in sets of four, crossed and re-crossed. Sam had counted: in total there were twenty thick lines, and three extra from where Dean hadn’t been close enough for his thrashing claws to cut deep enough. They had finally stopped bleeding.  
“Yep, unless Cas gets some special healing mojo? You’re stuck with that for life.”  
Sam didn’t know what to feel. He huffed a breath and looked over to the pit, the light of sunrise almost upon it. It had been gradually crossing the snow, looking like it was setting it aflame. The white became orange, glaringly bright. On the mountains, it turned craggy outcrops pink and purple, the distant forests turning from black to green.  
“Cas is gonna turn in a second,” Sam sighed.  
Bobby looked over to the pit, a messy square in an otherwise clean set of snow. “This is gonna hurt, brace yourself.”  
“What do you mean?”  
Bobby turned back to Sam, knowledge of something making his face dark with foreboding. “In the winter, when the sun hits like that, when there’s a shadow...” He paused, gritting his teeth. “Just watch.”  
~  
Castiel hadn’t gone back to sleep, but Dean had, even if he was only dozing. The wolf lay there, breathing slowly once his fur had dried out. The fir tree branches underneath them were icy and damp, but they were better than the hard, frozen ground.  
Castiel stroked, hand over fur, again and again. It was soothing. It was nothing like touching Dean’s skin, but it was still Dean. He still smelled like the man Castiel loved, if more dirty and outside-y. He smelled like ice now, and fir trees.  
Dean snuffled, grumbling.  
“One day, Dean,” Castiel sighed. “We’ll be together. Just a few days from now... we’ll know.”  
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to see the line of sunlight cutting down the far side of the pit. This was where he left. Every time he saw the sunrise, he was lost.  
He had not seen sunlight touching anything directly for more than five years. Only one day a year, when they were in a deeper shadow, could he watch the warmth crawl down towards him. It was like a taunt. He could see the caress of sunlight reaching for him, but never would he feel its embrace. Just like Dean. Dean was his sun.  
Castiel’s stroking paused. The sun was on his knuckle. He could see its glow as it touched his skin. Why was he not gone already? He should have wings. It was always the first touch, and he was swallowed by feathers. Every time. Why was he still here?  
He sat up, eyes wide as he felt sun on the back of his hood. The orange fire had touched Dean’s coat, turning the black to brown. Dean breathed deeply, happy to be warm.  
Castiel watched with awe as the sun enveloped Dean’s whole body, so glorious on him. The sun was so beautiful, in the same way that Dean was beautiful. Endless, radiating warmth.  
Castiel blinked. Dean’s fur was shimmering, like he was dotted with melting snow - but he wasn’t, he was dry. He twinkled, glittering.  
His fur pulled slowly back inside his body, replaced by pale skin, still glowing in the light. Dean’s snout receded, skull changing shape, fur on his head turning light and spiky. Red lips... naked shoulders, bare hips, pale legs.  
His wolfish mumble turned into a human grunt, waking from sleep. He blinked a few times, jerking as he saw Castiel’s shadow to his side. He gasped and turned over straight away.  
Castiel held back his tears so he could see Dean. His hand was on his own lips, he could feel his breath ghosting over his fingers.  
Dean’s eyes were as green as ever, his face just as handsome. He was silent in shock, half turned, stilling completely as their eyes met.  
Their gazes locked, neither able nor wanting to turn away. Dean didn’t seem to be breathing, but Castiel was panting shallow puffs, wispy clouds fading to nothing as the sun warmed the air over his face. Harsh shadow was created by his hood, it was the only thing keeping him human now.  
Dean’s hand outstretched slowly, fingers steady. Castiel didn’t even have to look to raise his own, ignoring the sunlight as it touched his wrist. Just another inch more, just a little further―  
He was engulfed by numbness, mind shallowing as his thoughts scattered. Wings spread from his sides and he escaped his clothes, hood falling away as he took to the sky.  
~  
Sam watched Dean launch himself after the flapping bird, but Castiel was already gone, screeching his way into the air. Dean’s bare arms fell into the snow as he climbed half-out of the pit, collapsing as a lamenting cry broke from his lips.  
“ _AAAAAAAuh!_ ” Dean wailed, throwing his face into the snow and hitting the ground with his fist.  
The sound carried around the valley like Castiel’s screams had only an hour before. It was pure anguish, and it tore a hole in Sam’s heart. It was the same pain, the same sorrow.  
Bobby patted Sam on the side of the arm, sharing with him a mournful, bitter look.  
~  
It took another whole hour before Dean left the pit, and nobody dared approach him. He was moody when he finally showed his face, having pulled clothes from the back of the cart while Bobby and Sam pointedly turned their faces away. Still, Dean didn’t come and see them straight off. He wandered back and forth away from the cart, drawing a path through the snow, over and over. At two separate points he returned to the cart, going through his saddlebags, brooding.  
“All right, so I get something happened last night,” he eventually started, kicking up snow as he made his way to the tiny smoking fire. “But tell me one thing: where’s my sword? Sabbath, not Wendigo.”  
Sam licked his lips, still staring at the fire. “It fell through the ice.”  
There was silence for a while, Bobby’s eyes on Sam. He could also feel Dean’s gaze on his back, judging him severely.  
“It’s in the lake?” Dean asked quietly.  
Sam nodded, poking the fire. “You can’t get it back, it’s gone.”  
Dean was silent for even longer, and Sam heard his hands wringing the hilt of his other sword. Sam knew that Dean felt better with a sword on his belt, but this one would not feel as calming as the one he was used to.  
“You know that I needed that sword, right, Sam? To kill Meg?” Dean’s voice was straining, anger only barely contained.  
Sam drew his eyeline to the sky, where the sun shone coolly down on the gradually melting snow. “Yeah, I get it.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He turned to face Dean, expression hardened. “Without the sword you can’t kill her. You can’t go up to the city, and take away a life. Yeah, she deserves it. But is it going to break the curse? No.”  
Dean’s nostrils flared, jaw set. “This again?”  
“Listen to yourself, Dean. You’re just going to block out, what - everything? So you can do what _you_ think is right? Oh yeah, damn what everyone else says. Someone else knows what’s best for you, for once. Is that so hard to believe?”  
Dean stepped forward and shoved Sam in the shoulder, at a loss for words but still angry.  
“You have no choice now, Dean. You _have_ to go along with what Bobby says is going to work.”  
“Damn Bobby, he’s a traitor to me and Cas, he’ll always be a―”  
“He never gave you away, Dean!” Sam yelled. Bobby didn’t want him to say, but this was a promise that was made to be broken. “You and Cas were seen on that window ledge all along. The very last night you were together.”  
Dean stopped in his tracks, face changed, furious lines falling away. “What?”  
“When you were naked, and making wishes. Someone saw you, blurted it out in a tavern―”  
Bobby put his hand on Sam’s arm, trying to stop him saying the next part. Sam shook him off.  
“Bobby was tortured, Dean. By Virgil. He _stole_ the secret out of him. He didn’t give it away.”  
Dean’s eyes were widened with the impact of the words. “Tortured?”  
Bobby shoved past Sam, shoulders squared. “You were always outta your mind, thinkin’ I’d give you up so easy. I just let you think that―”  
“But... why?”  
“Because it was easier! Easier than tellin’ you what really happened. It was my worst goddamn moment, when I saw the...” he looked to Sam, grievances heavy in his eyes, “the mess I put you boys through.” Bobby sighed heavily. “If I could’a been in any other time, any other place that night... you know like hell I would’ve been. Could’ve saved myself a night lying there with a ripped throat, tell you that.”  
Dean’s face was a mask of shock now, paled. He lowered his head, gaping. “But... but...”  
“Quit arguing, Dean.” Sam straightened up, hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You don’t have a choice.”  
“I _always_ have a choice!” Dean roared, rushing Sam. Sam took three steps back, Dean’s hands finding his shoulders and shaking him. “I’m _human_ , I have free will!” Dean shouted. “There’s a choice, I made mine! I chose Cas, I chose to leave Bobby’s place when we did. I choose where we sleep, I choose when we goddamn _head back into the city_. I call the shots. I’m the leader. Don’t _tell_ me what to do.”  
“You’re being a child, Dean.” Sam glared at him, seething. “Let someone else _show_ you what to do for once. It’s not a command, we’re _actually_ trying to help you. You’re not a soldier any more.”  
Dean snorted and shoved Sam back, who fell with a thump into the snow. His shirt rode up, and Dean paused.  
“What’s that?” he asked, anger ebbing to curiosity. He pointed at Sam’s stomach, where Sam hurriedly pulled his shirt down again.  
Bobby stepped in, glancing to Sam’s stunned face.  
“That happened last night,” Bobby snarled at Dean, force in his words. “When he saved your life.”  
Dean stared at the claw marks on Sam’s chest. Now that he’d seen them, he could probably tell their shape even through the cloth. They showed under his collar too; he couldn’t hide them.  
Sam knew what Dean was thinking as he stood so still. He’d scarred so many people. Cas had a line on his face that was never going to go away. Now Sam, his own brother... he was covered in his marks. Accidental, yes, but so very much like the scars Meg used to inflict on Castiel. Marking, claiming, always painfully. Dean wanted no part in that.  
Dean lowered a hand to Sam, willing him to take it. Sam pulled himself up, feeling Dean’s heavy breath on his face as they looked at each other.  
Dean grabbed Sam by the back of the head and pulled him close in a warm embrace, arms around Sam’s shoulders. Sam sighed into Dean’s leather armour, breath fogging it a little.  
“Fine,” Dean said quietly. “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll do your goddamn prophecy crap. Just shut up about it.”  
Sam grinned, laughing softly, then pulled away. Dean patted the side of Sam’s head with his gloved hand, a wry grin finally making its way onto his face. Sam smiled back.  
~  
Sam, exhausted still, went straight back to sleep, followed only a short time later by Bobby, the two of them sleeping head-to-toe in the pit. It was clear of the bitter wind, and that was the best thing about it. It smelled musty and damp, and the ice on the fir branches had melted and collected underneath, and the ground was still so cold it hadn’t absorbed the melted ice.  
By midday, when Sam woke again, half his clothes were soaked through, and he was freezing cold again.  
They weren’t going anywhere until nightfall, mostly due to the fact that half of them were completely exhausted - but, given that Dean was going along with their plan now, they still had a day to kill before they could enter the city and attempt to break the curse.  
Bobby was adamant that the curse could only be broken on a single day: this Sunday. Castiel was as clueless as to the reason as Sam was, but they both trusted Bobby's word.  
Of course, none of this would be possible unless Sam could find Death’s mystery object at Limn’mere. They would stop there tomorrow morning. It was ridiculous, in a way. Why would Sam, of all people, be the one to return almighty power to Capital-D Death?  
Everything rested on him, now. If they could just return the object at the right time, when the supposed ‘night without a day, day without a night’ thing came to pass - which was also ridiculous, by the way - and somehow Dean and Castiel were human at the same time...  
It was all too coincidental for Sam to comprehend. He could understand why Dean had trouble believing any of it would work. As far as logic went, it made perfect sense for Dean to believe that killing Meg would do the trick.  
If Sam didn’t trust Bobby like he did, Meg would already be dead and this curse would have been permanent, unbreakable. That is, if Dean wouldn’t have died instead, in the process of trying to kill her.  
Sam didn’t even know why he trusted Bobby. It just felt... right. He was family. The fact that Ellen trusted him only proved that.  
Sam pulled himself out of the pit, yawning. He stretched, meandering over to Dean, who was sulking on the back of the cart, the open cage looming over his head.  
“We good?” Sam asked cautiously. Dean eyed him, then nodded.  
Sam sat beside him, sighing. “Look, I’m sorry about... everything. It’s really just... it’s fucked up.” Sam watched Dean for a reaction, but got none. “You know when Cas calls for you, when you’re a wolf... he sounds like you do when you call for him. Torn up and broken, and it... it really sucks. If me ‘n Bobby didn’t think this was going to work, you really think we’d put you through this for even a single day more?”  
Dean didn’t look at Sam, but out at the shining, half-melted snow. Grass was almost visible through it now.  
“Seriously, Dean. It hurts to see you like this. You’re both...” Sam laughed. “You’re both pathetic as hell.”  
Dean chuckled gently, hands clasped in a lump on his lap. “Yeah.”  
Sam slapped him on the shoulder, friendly. “You’re gonna be with him, I swear it.”  
“Quit makin’ promises you can’t keep,” Dean muttered.  
Sam thought about this, recognising Dean was actually very correct. “Jerk,” he concluded.  
Dean frowned, then smirked. “Bitch.”  
Sam patted him a last time then slid off the cart, feet crunching and slipping in the snow. He made it a few feet out into the emptiness of white, before Dean called after him, “Where are you going?”  
Sam turned back with his arms out, grinning. “Hey, nature calls.”  
Dean rolled his eyes and shrunk back inside the cage, lying down.  
~  
As it was winter, they really only had about ten hours of Dean, and fourteen of Castiel. And given that Sam and Bobby had slept away most of Dean’s time, and that Dean was in a sorry enough mood that he was hardly speaking to anyone, Bobby and Sam made the decision to just stay put. It was usually undesirable to travel at night, but Sam was very aware that Castiel enjoyed seeing the path moving under their feet, not having to stay confined to one place.  
Sam mentioned that fact to Dean, and that had really been all the convincing it took. Tonight they would travel with Castiel.  
There were a couple more hours of daylight left now. They all sat around the fire, orange flame rekindled from the few embers that remained from last night. Dean was huddled in a shawl, eyes on the campfire. Sam sat on his right, staring at him. Chevy and Crowley were wandering the slushy field, trying to find grass.  
Bobby and Gabriel glanced at each other every few minutes over the fire, sighing. Sam could tell they had something to say, but were holding back for the sake of Dean’s mood. While Sam was sure that if circumstances were different, nobody would care a wagging tail about Dean’s mood, the fact that it was about _Castiel_ made all the difference. It was the kind of upset that nobody wanted to poke at.  
Except Dean, apparently.  
“Just say what you’re gonna, I’m not delicate.”  
Gabriel opened his mouth to disagree but Sam shot him a look that told him he should think twice. Dean was as delicate as a spring flower right now. Informing him of such would be... well, dumb.  
“Was just thinking,” Gabriel said. “About where Cas got to with your whole telling tales thing.”  
Dean’s interest was piqued and he looked up at Gabriel. “He’s still going with that?”  
Sam shrugged, catching sight of Dean’s slightly bewildered expression. “You started it. He likes telling us too.”  
Dean wrapped the shawl snugly around him. “He, uh... he still telling you the - you know - the private bits?”  
Gabriel snorted, Bobby slapped his knee, looking away, and Sam laughed.  
“Um. Yeah. That was where he got to actually. The last time you and him... uh.”  
“The last time?” Dean asked.  
“He said it was the last time you and him ever did it.” Sam winced as he spoke, looking at the company: his own brother, the man who was basically his uncle, and his brother’s best friend... who was also a horse. Gabriel didn’t seem to be bothered by Dean and Castiel’s antics, but it was still uncomfortable.  
“Oh, you mean with the―” Dean lifted a hand and pointed between his mouth and his crotch. Sam closed his eyes as he winced again, but nodded.  
“Right,” Dean said quietly. He was looking down now, embarrassed.  
“And then you escaped by a window,” Sam said, informatively. “And that was where we stopped.”  
“I ain’t really in a mood for talkin’,” Dean said, subdued. “Maybe let Cas tell you tonight.”  
“Whoa, hey there,” Gabriel said sharply. “Forgetting someone?”  
Dean met Gabriel’s eyes, and was silent for a while. “So you’re talkin’ to me now?” His tone was blunt, and Sam wasn’t sure what he’d missed.  
“Not this again,” Bobby sighed.  
Gabriel snorted. “You’re the one talking, dumb-ass,” he said to Dean.  
Sam looked between the horse and his brother, not sure where this argument came from. The two of them had seemed fine in each other's company earlier. “Is there... something going on here I haven’t quite... picked up on?”  
Gabriel kept his eyes on Dean, as he said, “Me and Dean haven’t exactly spoken. In, what was it, five-and-a-half-years?”  
Dean swayed his head towards Sam and shook it. “Nothin’ against Gabe. We’re still buddies, or whatever he wants to call it.”  
“It just ain’t easy. Not after.”  
“After what?” Sam asked.  
Dean’s eye twitched, and Gabriel looked away.  
“You better tell this one, Gabe. It’s your story.” Dean was resigned, and tugged the shawl so far up his shoulders that it covered half his face.  
Gabriel rested his head on Bobby’s legs. Bobby grumbled, but said nothing. After only a few seconds, he was petting Gabriel’s neck.  
“All right,” Gabriel said finally. “If you never want to see a horse cry, you better look away now.”  
~x~  
Castiel was only halfway down the rope now, and the people above were all jeering at them, a couple of them starting to pelt Dean’s belongings down onto their heads. Gabriel could duck the missiles easily, as he was floating on a bed of air, but poor Castiel was a sitting target.  
“Move your ass, Cas!” Dean called up from below, voice moving around as he dodged to avoid extra glass shards that the men had picked up from his bedroom floor.  
Castiel was scrambling downward as carefully as he could, but the rope swayed under his feet, and he was not as good at this as he could have been, were he not distracted.  
“Cas,” Gabriel said, leaning closer to avoid a small vase that flew past his head. “Cas, just drop. You can catch yourself with mojo.”  
Castiel looked up with terror in his eyes. “I can’t use so much of my magic any more.”  
“Your magic’s gonna be worthless if you get injured, there’s nobody around to fix you! Drop!”  
Castiel took all of three seconds to think before letting go of the rope and plunging the next twenty feet or so. Gabriel fell with him, and apart from the glass shards that closely followed his descent, it was really a thrilling experience.  
With another thunderclap that rocked a wave of dust from under him, Gabriel tumbled into a soft landing. His hand was taken by Castiel, who pulled him to his feet and then left his side to crush himself into Dean’s waiting arms.  
“Oh-ho, so it’s true!” Christian shouted from above, both hands on the window frame as he looked down. “The Captain and an angel.”  
Virgil laughed as he swung out of the window beside Christian, patting Christian on the back. “Angel’s not the issue here, is it? What do you say, Castiel?” His call almost sounded friendly, but the malice in his expression showed the truth. “What do you say about the fact that you’re both boys?”  
One of the heftier Guardsmen laughed at that, and another roared in disgust, hurling the stuffing of Dean’s mattress down into the street.  
Dean was still clutching Castiel, and looking up into the faces of their attackers. Castiel looked somewhere between terrified and utterly riled up, like he was about to start throwing punches.  
“I think,” Castiel said, loudly enough for the men above to hear - they all stopped what they were doing, and the ones closest to the window leaned further out to see them better. “I think Dean and I are doing nothing wrong.”  
Every man in the window laughed, save Balthazar. He was squashed into a side window, holding back the head of a red-faced man so he could actually see down.  
“Castiel,” Balthazar shouted, and Castiel turned his head to look at him. “Brother. You never told me?”  
Castiel glanced to Gabriel, then Dean, then back up to Balthazar. “Do you see why we could never tell you? Look at the trouble this is causing.”  
Balthazar did indeed see the many angry, confused faces that stared along the window at him. He held up a hand to them, trying to calm them.  
“I see, Cassie. But you don’t think―” Balthazar never got the rest of his sentence out, as the men in the room began to hurl things at him, as well. He covered his face with an arm, but with a yelp, he was pulled away from the window, inside the room.  
Shouts carried down to Gabriel, the men all leaving the windows, their interest changing focus as they found someone else to mess with. The view was silent for a few moments.  
Dean shot Gabriel a panicked look. “He’s gonna be okay, right?”  
In two seconds, he had his answer. Balthazar was thrown from the window, body aflame. Gabriel rushed forward to catch him, as did Castiel. He fell into yet another thunderclap that made the flames around him flare. The force blew out the windows of all three stories above them, raining more glass on their heads. Castiel was simultaneously trying to protect them all from the blast, as well as trying to put Balthazar’s fire out.  
“Jesus!” Balthazar screeched, rolling off the pillow of air and onto the dirt, smothering the flame. He stood up, shaking a fist at the men above, who were still throwing things. “You deranged dullards!”  
Gabriel patted Balthazar on the shoulder. “Nice to see you’re on the right side of this, bro.”  
“You think I’m taking sides?” Balthazar said, looking extremely unimpressed. “I just got thrown out of a window for asking a question, and _you_ ―” he turned to Dean and Castiel, unimpressed expression deepening. “What the blazes are you thinking?”  
All four of them jumped aside as the remains of Dean’s mattress hit the ground by their feet, half of it on fire. In one second flat, the rest of it roared with a wash of heat and flame that engulfed its entirety, forcing Dean and Castiel to back away. Dean’s arm curled protectively around Castiel.  
“Thinking wasn’t quite what they were doing,” Gabriel said, grinning. He paid no attention to the crossbow arrows that were launched at his friends, as only a raised finger turned each and every one of them into a daisy.  
Balthazar looked between Gabriel and the agitated Dean and Castiel. “Six years of pitiful entrapment and loneliness, and Cassie ends up with _Winchester?_ ”  
Dean shrugged. Castiel looked incredulous, but put his hand on Dean’s heart in some kind of subconscious gesture.  
“You know, we should probably get moving―” Dean said earnestly, catching sight of another group of people rounding the street corner. Gabriel saw them too, and realised with horror that they had weapons, pitchforks, and a flaming torch or two, lighting up angry faces.  
“Wow, they’re really serious about this thing,” Gabriel muttered, then found himself running quickly after Dean and Castiel, Balthazar’s hand on his shirtsleeve.  
“What - in God’s name - are we meant to do now?” Balthazar puffed, drawing his sword as he dropped Gabriel’s shirt. Gabriel only just kept pace with the others, finding their legs were much longer and more muscular. He’d never expected the day would come when he'd actually need to use his legs to get someplace in a hurry. This was the second time today that he’d had to run.  
“I think we’re in for a fight,” Dean called back, also drawing his sword, the shiny new magic one that Castiel had made for him.  
“If I get killed for your stupid love affair,” Balthazar shouted, “I will have your head.”  
Dean slowed his running to look back and wink. “Cas already has mine. The smaller one.”  
Balthazar made a very graceless noise as they followed Dean’s heavy footfalls into the central courtyard outside the chapel. There were paths from here to all over the city, if only Dean knew which way he was leading them.  
Apparently he didn’t. He stopped in the middle, looking all around. Castiel took his hand again, panting. Gabriel drew his sword when he saw the mob rushing them, shouting and yelling.  
Did they even know what this fight was for? It was all just rumour, wasn’t it?  
Maybe not any more. Dean and Castiel were arm-in-arm, kissing passionately. It was lovely, yes, but so very not good, if they were thinking of their future lives.  
“Quit it!” Gabriel bellowed, smacking Castiel around the back of the head. “We got a war to fight, look at this!” He spread his arm to show them what they were facing: fifty men, swords, pitchforks, fire, crossbows. Some looked stunned, some extremely shocked. Dean and Castiel had just given them a sight that they had never expected to see.  
“Now you’ve done it,” Balthazar sighed. “I am going to die today, aren’t I?”  
Dean stood there and calculated. Fifty armed men against two excellent fighters (one of whom was also a fallen angel), one scared and unpractised fallen angel, and one fallen angel whose power was about to run out.  
“Yep,” Dean said. He turned to Castiel, breathing hard, ignoring Gabriel’s desperate arm-flailing. “Last day on Earth, what are your plans?”  
“ _Now?!_ ” Gabriel despaired, looking around at the advancing crowd.  
“Now or never,” Castiel sighed back, and kissed Dean again desperately, with his hands in his hair.  
“You’re making it worse,” Gabriel sang, eyes to the sky. This was hopeless. They might as well give up without a fight.  
“Hey, Gabe,” Balthazar said lightly, from right beside him.  
“Why yes, Balthazar?”  
Balthazar held out a hand. “How about we go out side-by-side, as brothers. As fallen angels, fighting for nothing other than... those two idiots.” He looked to Dean and Castiel who, they might as well face it, were snogging each other’s faces off.  
Gabriel slapped his hand into Balthazar’s, shaking it. “I’d be honoured. And pissed off, but yeah, honoured.”  
Balthazar nodded firmly, and raised his sword.  
The mass of angry men advanced gradually, and unsurprisingly looked even angrier than before. Virgil’s face was among them, as was Walt’s, and Roy’s - in fact, half the Guard had joined them. No women. Well, one woman. There she was, striding out from between the men, her red hair like a flame against the dirty, dark smears of the rest of the them. Dean and Castiel stopped kissing to look at her.  
Gabriel realised half the congregation had stopped their advance to watch her. She looked out of place here.  
Anna looked back at the men, some of whom clearly thought it was wrong enough that she was wearing armour, let alone standing ahead of them, looking like she was on conversing terms with these traitors and sinners. Every man stopped completely now, still a good twenty feet from Gabriel’s group.  
“Gabriel,” she said. “What are you doing?”  
He dropped his defence and shrugged. “I dunno. Might die.”  
“Good cause?”  
Gabriel looked at Dean, who awkwardly gave him a thumbs up. Gabriel looked back at Anna and said, “Probably.”  
Anna narrowed her eyes, looking back at the horde of attackers again. “Any chance you lot would just turn around and walk away?”  
The entire crowd roared a negative, one throwing a whole flaming torch at her. She stepped aside and looked down at it distastefully.  
“I see.”  
“Room for one more,” Balthazar said, indicating the empty sand between himself and Gabriel, in front of Dean and Castiel.  
Anna caught Gabriel’s eye and Gabriel flashed her a sideways grin.  
Then she strode forward, drawing her sword. That... was an attack move. She was going to attack Gabriel? Or Balthazar? Dean and Cas?  
She made it to a foot in front of them, then turned around.  
She lifted her sword level with her eyes, raised her other hand, and beckoned the entire crowd closer. As one, they kicked back into their rush, and charged.  
All five of them were overwhelmed in a heartbeat. Gabriel had to knock three men out of his way before he could even lift his sword high enough to cut anything other than kneecaps. Two men were dead in less than a minute, the white sand beneath them staining with blood.  
Despite his endless bravado, Gabriel was fairly certain they would lose this fight. He was all for fighting for the right to love, and all of that, but sometimes he could call out a pointless fight. This felt like one of them. They were massively outnumbered, and as soon as news spread of the Captain being lover to a man, they would be inundated with angry citizens, all of them rearing to take Dean’s head off. And Castiel’s.  
Gabriel would defend the two idiots to the death. If only, he thought, that wasn’t exactly what was going to happen.   
He’d wanted Dean and Castiel to be out of the city by now. But, of course, things had gone the way they always did, and they were all going to fight for their lives instead of running for them.  
There was no sense in it. Not when people died. Not when Gabriel had to kill people.  
Balthazar had found his way to Gabriel’s side again, and together they drove back an entire sector of attackers, sending at least six running for their lives. Balthazar laughed, partly in exhilaration. However, as the minutes wore on, and the injuries sustained to their enemies grew, he no longer barked in triumph at each successful attack.  
It was not fun. It was war, it wasn’t meant to be.  
There were more people joining the scramble, and it wasn’t all angels and soldiers now - the courtyard filled with tradesmen; farmers with scythes, blacksmiths with hammers and the odd tangle of horseshoes. Now there were untrained lords and servants fighting alongside each other - and even a few monks, who had no clue how to fight, but were quickly picking it up. Everything was a weapon now. The wrong end of a broom could become lethal - or even the right end, if you knew where to stick it.  
There was Dean, a wide berth around him, men hanging back as they knew they would meet their death if they took a step closer. Occasionally one braved it, and splashed the arena with another wash of red. To attack Dean Winchester was suicide.  
There was Castiel, blindly blasting people with bursts of power, knocking them back. Every time he had a split second to spare, his eyes were on his hands, astounded that he held such force.  
“Cas,” Gabriel called to him, edging past metal armour and ducking under a tall horse that someone had ridden into the fray. “Cas!”  
Castiel turned, eyes wide as he shot a ribbon of light to something behind Gabriel’s ear, and Gabriel turned to see a troll of a man falling backwards, sword raised over his head.  
“You must―” Castiel puffed, “―be careful Gabriel,” he warned, blasting another man away from right beside his ear. “They may be trying to kill - me and - Dean, but―”  
Gabriel’s eyes widened, nodding furiously. “I know, I know, Cas! We’re in this together, all right? All of us against them, we won’t let you get hurt―” he stopped to swipe his sword fiercely into the gut of a growling, scarred man, deep-set eyes that seemed to hollow out as he fell backwards to the ground. “We’ll fight for you! You and Dean just leave the city! Right now! Go!”  
“Like hell that’s gonna happen,” Dean panted, arm on Anna’s as he dragged her closer to Gabriel. “This is our fight, we are gonna goddamn finish it.”  
“Are you crazy?!” Gabriel bellowed at Dean. “Use this as a distraction! You staying here is just creating bloodshed, look at this!” Gabriel gestured with his sword at the masses of angry faces, swarms of human beings trying their very best to kill Dean. He didn’t have a scratch on him, but his assailants were accumulating injuries by the second.  
“I’m fighting, Gabe,” Dean growled, furious. “I’m fightin’ ‘cause it’s about time the world had a fight like this. If we win this thing, me ‘n Cas can be together and nobody can say a fucking thing about it.”  
“What the hell kinda logic is _that?_ ” Gabriel shouted back, forced to cut a man’s throat when they reached to spear Dean through the neck. Blood sprayed both Gabriel’s and Dean’s faces, but neither of them had a moment to flinch. “Dean, if you survive this, you will be _hunted!_ You will be hunted down and _killed_. You’ll be outlawed, you’ll be―”  
Anna butted in, her voice just as vehement. “The chances are, you’re not _going_ to survive. You are going to die for this, _Captain_.”  
Dean turned to look at her briefly, and he and Gabriel both saw the glint of mischief in her eye.  
“That sounds a lot like a threat, _Anael_ ,” Dean replied, almost grinning.  
“At least I picked the right side to fight on, huh?” she smirked, the spray of blood lost in the colour of her hair. “I’ll probably survive about ten times as long with you on my team. My boys.”  
Anna and Gabriel stood back-to-back and wielded their swords like they were tied together through their bodies. Anna raised hers, Gabriel dropped his lower, and together they cut through the wall of the writhing crowd, whose driving force spilled forwards, swords and hands and fire.  
Anna used forcefields to hold people back, only able to keep each one sustained for a few seconds before someone cut through it, about as easy as pushing through a half-foot of floating water.  
Gabriel lost sight of Dean in the chaos again, but Castiel was still there, throwing balls of air at people as quickly as he could think.  
“Cas!” Gabriel shouted to him, head up as he tried to catch his attention. Castiel waved, and Gabriel flicked a hand in reply. “Don’t use your mojo so roughly!”  
“What - what do you mean?” Castiel cried back, throwing a stream of power out through both outstretched hands at once. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people here now, men and women alike. Gabriel couldn’t see the end of the crowd any more.  
“I mean,” Gabriel bellowed, voice straining over the roar of people, “be sneaky! Don’t use it all at once!”  
“How do I - attack - sneakily?”  
“Figure it out, bro!”  
It was more than five minutes before Castiel graced Gabriel’s view again, the only friend in sight in the meantime being Anna, her red hair swishing over Gabriel’s shoulders.  
Now Castiel fought in a place half the battlefield from where he'd been before, and he had managed it. He’d used his power to create weapons. Each hand wielded a pointed blade, not unlike a misericorde - silver, as long as his forearms. They were like giant needles, and he was incredibly adept at using them. With each breath he took, he turned them, cutting into a throat or slicing the inside of someone’s unarmoured arm, sending them crumpling into the dust to bleed out.  
It was terrible to watch. Pure, innocent Castiel, corrupted by battle. Of course, he had never been as naive as that. He was unpurposed, curious Castiel, but a warrior at heart. All angels were warriors. Why else would they all be on Earth to fight for the city of Zamreer?  
The city had no enemy. It was civil war now, and Zamreer’s soldiers and civilians were battling each other to the death, unnecessarily.  
Stupid love. Stupid Dean Winchester and his stupid, _stupid_ love for the stupid angel.  
Anna touched Gabriel’s hand and together they fought on, skin slippery from the sweat and blood that clung to them.  
The two of them were attacked constantly. They’d been seen with the Captain and his angel: the two men who had been kissing. No man should want that. No man should be _allies_ with a man who wants that. Therefore Gabriel and Anna were going to be attacked just as a fiercely as Dean and Castiel were. In the eyes of the mob, a supporter was just as bad as a sinner.  
They must have been fighting for about an hour now, and nothing had changed. There was no end in sight.  
Fatigue never really came into it. Adrenaline kept everyone pumped, even the aches and pain of limbs or injuries went unnoticed for the longest time. Gabriel knew he was bleeding from the leg, and there was a slice on the side of his forehead, but they only throbbed dully, and as he was swinging his sword, he felt nothing but the clash of the blade or the thud of a body against his.  
He could use his power - not to heal himself, as that would only weaken him, quite the opposite of what he needed - but to attack. He knew he shouldn’t.  
He dragged his Grace vial out of his pocket. He hadn't touched it since Castiel gave it to him. He was low on power, and dangerously so. The glow of the liquid inside was barely visible in daylight, but as Gabriel moved, he could see it only just coating the bottom of the bottle, not even enough to pool.  
“Gabriel, look out!” Anna shrieked, throwing a powerful protective shield around him. Two women were blasted away from his back, collapsing into the crowd. A sword flew from one of their hands and came to rest harmlessly at his side.  
He’d been knocked to the ground, and all around him, feet trampled, stomping - bodies were everywhere. Some had been dragged away, but people were stepping on the fallen that remained, unable to put their feet anywhere else. Gabriel had no room to stand up, not if he wanted to avoid the swords that swung by his head. An axe nearly cut his ear, and he heard a yelp as it sliced into someone’s body. His legs were weighed down by another man, whose blood seeped into his trousers, still warm.  
“Gabriel!” Anna screamed again, but this time it wasn’t warning about an attack - his Grace vial was underfoot of the people, horses and boots and metal armoured shoes kicking it about. It was already several feet away, its faint glow pulsing as each foot made contact with it.  
Anna kept it in her sight, though - Gabriel could only watch from below, following her red hair as she made her way toward it. The last thing he saw was her feet, once her hair was lost in the brawl.  
He couldn’t dare to think what would happen if the vial were broken. He might die, yes, but how did angels die?  
Anna’s boots finally toed the tiny bottle, but, like Gabriel, she couldn’t let her head descend into the midst of swinging blades. Gabriel saw a pale hand outstretched to the bottle, and it flew to her hand, fingers locking around it. Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief, and turned his attention to removing the dead man from his legs. Nobody attacked him while he was down here; he may have been mistaken for dead, just like every single body that was piled underfoot.  
After some careful struggling while avoiding the footfalls that cascaded around him, he was finally free, and he looked up to find Anna.  
There she was.  
Her bright hair was being stepped on by bloody boots, feet kicking her head as they ignored her. She had fallen and was unconscious, arm reaching out, Gabriel’s Grace still clasped in her hand. Gabriel gave no thought to himself as he clambered to his feet, shoving people out of the way to make a path to Anna. He’d left his sword on the ground, but he had no care for that now.  
Anna.  
Gabriel kneeled again, breathing hard. A hand over Anna’s face told him she was still breathing. She was still alive. She had a head wound, blood was streaking her hair, darker and wetter than it should be. There was so much blood. The strike had been meant as a fatal blow.  
“Anna,” he breathed, unsure what to do. She had to be moved, the boots to her body were just making it worse. He grabbed her waist, hand on the hilt of someone else’s sword as he tried to stop them swinging it down on his head. The movement stopped immediately as the attacker recognised him.  
“Gabe!” Dean said, stunned to find Gabriel clambering to his feet with Anna slung over his shoulder.  
“Quickly, help me,” Gabriel whispered, grabbing Dean by the arm.  
Dean nodded and together they fought their way through the crowd, unable to see which direction they were going in, not at first. The buildings around them were all white, the only landmark was the church, and that was where Dean led them. The crowd parted willingly before Dean's sword, which he held in front of him like the bow of a ship, splitting the waves.  
The tumult of battle went on around them, fighters attacking each other without discrimination. Gabriel stepped forward heavily, the weight of Anna like the weight of the whole world. He could feel her breath on his back, her fingers weakly curling into the material of his shirt. This was probably a terrible way to carry her if her head was bleeding, since now the blood would rush to her wound.  
“Dean, hurry,” Gabriel shouted, and Dean didn’t need to look back to nod; they were only a few feet from pulling free of the melee now. There were bloodstains up the side of the church.  
Rufus stood overlooking the scene before him, crying out in desperation. “Sunday, you fools! God ain’t meaning you to fight like this! It’s Sunday!” He laced his fingers on the top of his head and turned away.  
“Here, put her here,” Dean said to Gabriel, leading him to the fountain area outside the church. Here, the grass was an untouched square, the burbling fountain where Meg held her little gatherings devoid of monks for now.  
Gabriel grunted and set Anna down on the grass. She looked a terrible sight; red leather and fiery hair and blood too bright against the green.  
Anna stirred, croaking out, “Gabe―”  
“Shh, shh,” Gabriel whispered, a hand stroking her cheek. She was so beautiful, even with blood and grit on her face. “You’re going to be fine.”  
He looked up to see Dean kneeling by Anna’s shoulders. Dean met Gabriel’s eye and very slowly and gently shook his head.  
Gabriel knew that. He could see it. There was nothing that could heal Anna. Cupid was not here, Death was not here, she couldn’t heal herself, Gabriel couldn’t heal her, and the circle of life and death had to go on. She wouldn’t survive any longer than a few minutes, beyond which point, no-one could save her, even with magic. This was goodbye.  
Dean put a hand on Anna’s hair. His fingers and knuckles were covered in blood, and Gabriel had no idea if it was Dean’s own, or someone’s else’s.  
Gabriel’s lip was trembling, eyes filling with tears he had no control over.  
“Ugh, quit it, cry baby,” Anna breathed. Her throat seized around the words, and she coughed, a spray of blood lining her chin and trickling down her neck.  
Gabriel gasped with hand over his mouth, then dropped it to caress her face. He didn’t know what to say to her.  
“What’s with the face, Gabe?” Anna grinned, blood making her lips look haunting, the wrong shape. “‘m gonna be fine. Just, y’know, gaping head wound.”  
Gabriel sobbed and buried his face in her neck, fingers trembling on her cheek.  
“Gabe,” she whispered, now that he was so close. The words were only meant for him. “You’re the best friend I ever had. But I’m n- not... the best you ever had. Don’t let me stop you.”  
“Wh... what?”  
He pulled away to look down into Anna’s smiling face. “Don’t feel guilty. It’s not your fault.”  
Gabriel shook his head, knowing Dean was watching. “Anna, I don’t - I can’t―”  
“Do what you need to,” she breathed, eyes fluttering. She blinked hard, trying to focus. “To survive. Anything you need.”  
Gabriel cupped her face in his hands, leaning over her. “I don’t need to survive, not if you’re gone.”  
Anna puffed out a shaky laugh, more of a hiss of pain than a laugh. “Take care of Dean, you dumbass.”  
“Anna - Anna, no―”  
“Pass me a sword,” Anna sighed.  
Gabriel’s eyes fell wide. What was she going to do? Suicide? A soldier’s death? Ask them to put her out of her misery? But while she still had magic, she couldn’t die...  
Dean set his sword in her hand. Gabriel looked up at him, shaking his head. No, he didn’t want her to go―  
She turned the sword and pointed its blade to the sky, her hand coming free from the hilt to raise it with mojo, so it floated. It pointed towards her feet, and Gabriel imagined it would turn again to plunge into her heart - he sat up, about to snatch the sword from the air, but then it moved.  
It shot past Gabriel’s head, past where Dean was looking, and stabbed into the neck of one of Raphael’s supporters. Blood poured from the line in her throat, and in only seconds, she collapsed in a heap on the floor.  
Gabriel gasped and turned back to Anna. The colour was gone from her eyes. No longer silver, they were grey. Human.  
She raised her hand and set it on Gabriel’s cheek as he leaned close, both of them shivering.  
“I hate to s-say it, Gabe,” Anna gasped, struggling to get words out, “but th-there’s someone else.”  
Gabriel recognised the face she wore when she told a joke. He gave her the weariest, most miserable grin he’d ever given anyone. “Who?”  
Anna smiled back, eyes flickering to the sky. “Death.”  
Gabriel let out a racking sob, hand running into Anna’s hair as he clasped her to him, rocking her head to his chest. The life was gone from her. She was once an angel, a fallen angel, then human, and now she was dead. She would go where humans went.  
Maybe she would go to Heaven. Right back where she started.  
Gabriel wailed into her hair, feeling Dean’s hand on his back. Gabriel’s cries became louder and more unrecognisable, more like a tortured dog or any dying creature. It was like his life had left with her.  
He didn’t understand. He _knew_ she would never breathe again, nor talk, nor laugh. But he didn’t understand. Why? Why her, why now? Why like this?  
“Gabe, come on,” Dean whispered, with his head hung close. “We need to move.”  
“No - no,” Gabriel replied, voice thick with tears and anguish.  
“Gabriel,” said a new voice. Castiel’s voice. “Our fight is far from over.”  
“I’m not fighting,” Gabriel sighed, tears mingling with the blood on Anna’s hair. “Fight your own fucking battle. I have no Grace left, my vessel is...” he looked down at himself, knowing how badly he was injured. There were gashes in his armour, where he’d been stabbed a few times over. They were only flesh wounds. They had been nothing. Until now.  
“Uh, heh-heh,” he muttered, laying Anna down on the grass. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the sky. There was no light in her face, it was all the pastiness of death.  
Castiel crouched beside Gabriel, Dean’s hand finding his knee. Castiel reached out a slender hand and touched Anna’s face. He flinched, like he wanted to pull away, but instead slid his fingers to her eyes and closed her eyelids. It was such a human thing to do, Gabriel hadn’t thought of it. Even after six years locked away, Castiel had more humanity than Gabriel ever acquired. It seemed like instinct to him. And it felt right.  
“She told me to survive,” Gabriel said very quietly. “But I’m not gonna.”  
Castiel stared at him sharply, a breath gusting over Gabriel’s cheek. “Why are you not?”  
Gabriel looked down at his stomach and peeled back his hand, showing Castiel the gushing blood. “Some bastard poked a few holes in me.”  
“Gabe,” Dean whimpered. “No, not you too...”  
Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, looking down at the body of Anna, then to Gabriel. “Gabriel,” he started, speaking slowly. “Do you want to live? Without her?”  
Gabriel read more into it than Castiel had said. How could he know what Gabriel felt? Gabriel knew the answer, he saw it in Castiel when he looked at Dean. Maybe it was a different love, but it was love nonetheless. Castiel could not live without Dean by his side, and he was asking if Gabriel felt the same way about Anna.  
“I want to follow her,” Gabriel said, eyes closed. “But she never wants me to follow her.”  
Castiel’s hand found Gabriel’s, hot and sticky, grit between their skin. “Love is a compromise. In death... she’s found what she wants.”  
Gabriel nodded. “And me, in life, I’m...” He looked at the blood around him, the redness that it was so important to know you have, to keep it safe inside. It was everywhere. “I’d do what she wants. To live and survive, and―” he glanced to Dean, who seemed uncertain whether or not he wanted to look back, “―to look after you, Dean. And you, Cas.”  
“We need no protector,” Castiel said kindly. “But we could always use some company.”  
“Speak for yourself,” Gabriel huffed, wincing as he felt a surge of blood pulse from him. “I’ve saved your life about ten times today.”  
Castiel’s hand wrapped around Gabriel’s collar, thumb rubbing his neck. “We will never be more thankful.”  
“All right, all right,” Gabriel sighed, flinching violently. “Either save my life or put me out of my misery, but make it quick. This kinda hurts like hell.”  
Castiel nodded firmly, holding an empty hand out to Gabriel. “May I have your Grace?”  
“Yes it’s―” Gabriel’s mind flickered and he looked to the battlefield. Anna had held his Grace, but then she was knocked down, it would have slipped from her hand―  
“It’s here,” Gabriel said, touching Anna’s hand where it lay clasped tightly on the grass. “Sh-... she held on to it.”  
Castiel and Gabriel together gently pulled it out of her hand. Her fingers fell open without resistance. Gabriel toyed with its glass shape as it left Anna’s grasp, thumb over the cork. He could break it now, and it could all be over. Even the numbness of unknown death and uncertainty... It would be better than this loss.  
It was the kind of unbearable feeling that he just knew he must force himself to bear. For the sake of Anna, who had simply _asked_ him to bear it. _Don’t feel guilty. It’s not your fault._  
Castiel was waiting with an open hand for him to hand the vial over. He wouldn’t take it. He would wait for Gabriel to decide what he wanted to do with his eternity.  
Gabriel very, very slowly, placed the bottle in Castiel’s hand. He couldn’t take his fingers away from it, not just yet.  
“What - what are you going to do with it?”  
Castiel curled his fingers tight around it, like Anna had. “I am going to make sure you survive. By any means necessary.”  
Gabriel pulled his hand away, giving it to Castiel completely. “Make it good, then, bro.”  
Castiel nodded, and stood up, his other hand dropping away from Dean's. He took long strides to the edge of the grass, letting a silver blade drop from his sleeve as he wove his way back into the battle. Gabriel watched him go, the blue shirt vanishing into the mangle of moving bodies and flashing weapons.  
“He better hurry if he’s gonna make something with that,” Gabriel grunted, the hand on his stomach curling into a fist. “I think I’ve only got a couple minutes.”  
Dean nodded, hand on Anna’s arm. He swallowed hard, then looked up to Gabriel. “Let’s go into the church.”  
It was a pointless decision, given that they were perfectly safe where they were - well, somewhat safe - but Gabriel agreed.  
Together, without any discussion, they helped each other carry Anna inside the church. Gabriel took her head and shoulders, arms wrapped under hers. He bled into her hair as she swayed, a dead weight between their bodies. She seemed heavier than she had earlier, even with the strength of another man bearing half of her. Maybe the life was leaving Gabriel faster than he imagined. He was weakening.  
They carried her to the pews on the left, the sunshine streaming through through the painted windows bathing the aisle in light. As they crossed through it, Gabriel felt like he was swallowed by Hellfire for a moment, and he panicked. What had he done wrong in his life? What did he do to warrant this torture?  
But it passed, and he calmed as soon as the shade cooled him again.  
They set Anna’s body down on a pew, head on the side toward the aisle. Dean came to stand beside Gabriel, gripping his shoulder. They couldn’t speak, as there was nothing to say.  
Gabriel grunted suddenly, his hand flying back to his stomach. His hands were bleeding, his stomach, his leg, his head.  
Dean guided him to a pew, the one beside Anna’s. Gabriel lay the same way as she did, feet to the wall of the church, head to the aisle. He looked back and saw Dean, upside-down, his face lined with grief. This was the first time Gabriel had seen Dean properly since Anna had left them. He looked like an old man.  
~  
Castiel ran like the ground was on fire, like the flagstones of the city were biting at him. He had run fast before, but never had it been this urgent. It almost felt like he was running in slow motion, like he could never go fast enough. It felt like his feet were being dragged down by the events of the day, but he was pushed on by the importance of his task.  
He had to save Gabriel, and he knew exactly how. It had been done before, so it wasn’t an experiment. The last time it happened, Castiel deemed it as cruel. But he realised now... it was anything but cruel. Not if it was done for the right reasons.  
His destination was in sight. He ran like he was falling, as he made the last leg of the journey, down the slope that led to the stables. The door was wide open - while it was Sunday, people still came to tend to their horses..  
Castiel didn’t have far to go. The first stall on the left. This was Gabriel’s saviour.  
“Bailey,” Castiel panted, rushing to place a hand on her muzzle. She nudged him, snorting. “Bailey, I have something for you. I don’t think you’ll like it.”  
Bailey nickered and flicked her ears, and Castiel sighed worriedly.  
“I have found a way to heal your body.” When Bailey made no response, Castiel continued. “The fallen angel named Gabriel―”  
Bailey whinnied loudly, recognising the name of her friend. Castiel laughed under his breath at the joy in her voice, hand stroking down her neck.  
“Gabriel is in danger. He’s dying. Like you.”  
The tubby horse stopped looking quite so excited. She blinked placidly up at Castiel, waiting for the rest of his request.  
“I can save him, but I will have to use your body to hold his Grace - his being. You’ll be...” Castiel took a deep breath, “You’ll be dead. Your body will live on, keeping him safe.”  
Bailey was silent, hooves shuffling to stand neatly.  
It had to be her. It _had_ to be. Call it fate, or destiny. Castiel had known from the moment he first met her, but only now did he understand. None of the dying humans on the battleground were worthy; even Gabriel’s current human vessel had failed him, in the end. This horse was Gabriel’s true vessel.  
“He only has minutes to live.” Castiel held up the vial, seeing the thin layer of Grace that trickled close to the cork. “I have to put this on you... maybe it’ll go inside you somehow, I don’t know.”  
Castiel gasped in realisation. “Wait,” he said to Bailey. “Wait here.”  
He rushed down the stable aisle, passing tens upon tens of horses, and a surprised Colton, sweeping the floor. Castiel found Lucifer’s stall, and smiled as Lucifer poked his head out to greet him.  
“Hello, brother,” Castiel said to him. “I need to ask you an urgent question.”  
 _This sounds vaguely promising. Go ahead._  
“When Meg transferred you to a horse vessel, when you used your Grace up... How did she do it?”  
Lucifer seemed surprised by the question. _First of all, it wasn’t me that used it all up, it was Satan. I’m just the horsey off-product of that. Second, I don’t know, I was an empty mess of nothing. Quite sad, really._  
“You don’t remember what everything looked like after you became a horse?”  
Lucifer’s eyelids flickered, white mane wispy in the soft breeze. _She... had a... She put a handful of stars on my face._  
Castiel contemplated briefly what that might mean. “So she put the Grace on your horse vessel?”  
Lucifer paused, considering, then nodded. Castiel exhaled a puff of air and was gone before Lucifer could whinny after him.  
Castiel sped back to Bailey, uncorking the bottle. A wispy steam of stars rose from it. Actual stars, little twinkling lights. Nothing but pure angel Grace.  
“Bailey, may I have your permission?”  
Castiel could see Bailey’s thoughts. He had thought the same as he’d run here: why would she willingly give up what was left of her short life? Why would she give up how peaceful it was for her, only to send herself into the emptiness of death? To save someone else? She got nothing from this deal. Yes, her friend would become a healthy, probably long-lived horse, and his life would be extended. But she would die. And she only had seconds to decide.  
And that was the moment when Castiel realised that none of the angels in the Garrison were in vessels willingly given. Meg must have forced them.  
No person would give up the remainder of their life to help another. The last moments of life were spent with those who love you. Those moments were precious, and nobody would give those moments away for anything. When it came down to it, people were selfish. Even Castiel would not make such an agreement, if it meant he got even a single second less with Dean.  
Bailey was never going to give up her life. Castiel lowered his head and put the stopper back in the bottle. The tingle of it in his hand stopped. It felt like just a bottle now. Maybe the stars were Gabriel’s last breath. Maybe he was gone now.  
Castiel turned to leave.  
Bailey neighed, loud and sudden. Castiel looked back, seeing how wild she’d gotten. She bucked and brayed and kicked the back of her stall, headbutting the wooden partition by her side, sending it leaning precariously over the horse in the next section.  
Castiel rushed forward and took the cork back out of the bottle, grabbing Bailey’s head and stilling it. He stroked her, and she trembled, scared.  
“I thank you for your life, Bailey. Thank you.” He looked into her eyes and caressed her heart, then her soul. She nickered gently and fell asleep in his hands.  
Castiel dragged the bottleneck over Bailey’s face, messing up the short hair between her eyes. The small amount of Grace that was left was so difficult to see, he couldn’t even tell if it had come out of the bottle. He wiped it down, over and over again, squinting to try and see the glistening droplet, the single one that had remained. The bottle was empty.  
Castiel had failed.  
~  
Dean crouched by the pew, a hand on Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel’s breaths were slowing, becoming more like raspy stutters. His eyelids were flickering, and the brightness in his irises was darkening. Dean wanted to comfort him, or to tell him that Castiel was going to save him, any second now. But there was no way to tell. Every sign said Gabriel was fading and there was nothing they could do.  
Gabriel stopped breathing, finally. Dean felt his heart stop under his hand. The hazel-green of his eyes was now just a dull, mossy hue. It was so human. Gabriel was dead.  
Dean felt nothing. The loss was too great. He closed Gabriel’s eyes for him, then he sighed and stood up, hands in fists. He nodded to himself, stepping back a few paces, glancing between Gabriel’s dead body, Anna’s dead body, and up at the window that poured sunlight into the church.  
It seemed too cheerful in here. It was mid-afternoon in the early summer, and that was not the appropriate weather for the emptiness Dean felt. Everything should be grey, and cold, and no air should be moving. That gentle breeze that swept through the church was wrong.  
Dean turned, swiftly and precisely, and marched to the front doors of the church, stepping into the walkway. On his right, down some way, was the mess of fighting people. Dean looked on and watched them moving in a throng, hearing only the buzz of voices and the tinkle of clashing swords.  
He swept over the grass to where Anna had fallen. Then to the place where she had made her last attack, in her last moment as a soldier. Dean pulled the sword from the neck of the dead body that was crumpled there. There was no dignity for these people. There rarely was, for those who died in battle.  
Sabbath's blade was smeared in blood, the silver scuffed and nicked by other weapons. Dean swung it, testing. It felt the same as ever. The burden of so many kills in its short life had made no difference. The same could not be said for Dean.  
Dean raised his sword and walked straight back into battle.  
He fought in silence, not even allowing himself a grunt of exertion, nor a cry out loud as he moved to bring his sword down on yet another assailant. He could feel his own ruthlessness, how it carried through his hands. It felt like his sword moved without him, but he knew it was all him. His pain, his loss, his anger. But it was all dull and numb, like the idea of emotion rather than a real feeling.  
He needed to do this. He needed to show the people of the city how he was still the same man. Despite his passion for training being lost in a matter of weeks, despite his desertion of the city, despite the fact that he had found comfort in another man - _comfort_ that the world had never given him before - he was _still the same man_. He could still fight to the death. He could still single-handedly take out an entire quadrant of enemies. He would still fight for freedom, and for peace. Even if it meant killing. That was what Dean Winchester did.  
It didn’t matter that Dean Winchester was in love with Castiel. He would show the city. He would show the _world_ that it was true.  
Not ten minutes later, Dean felt a flicker of something for the first time since leaving the church. At the edge of the battleground, riding in on that stumpy little horse, was Castiel. He rode without a saddle, and Castiel sat up straight with a blade held to each side of him, expression fierce. His blue shirt was stained with blood, like everyone’s was.  
Dean lost him in the throng, but occasionally saw a flash of blue up high as he turned his back on an enemy, or saw the horse rearing up and kicking someone down. Castiel was managing to keep his balance, and Dean had never before seen a horse work in such obvious synchronization with a human in battle. Usually the animals were terrified, but this one, despite its oddball look, moved as ferociously as a warrior.  
Dean tried to get closer to ask Castiel what had gone wrong with trying to save Gabriel, but he didn’t make it more than a few feet before his attention was wrenched away. And it wasn’t just him, everyone’s was: the whole battle stopped for thirty full seconds as every fighter’s attention turned to a cracking, gigantic noise that boomed around the city.  
An entire turret was breaking off the side of the castle, bricks crumbling and disintegrating, dust rising like smoke - the round shape of it slipped down a floor or two, then tilted, crashing loudly as it tumbled, turning on its side. It fell beyond where Dean could see, but a cloud of golden dust rose steadily after it. It must have crushed a huge area where it had fallen.  
Dean looked around to find what had caused it - nothing human, and not from the castle. It was something here.  
Dean found what he was looking for: standing on a pile of heaped dead bodies, was Raphael. His arms were raised, and he was laughing. Dean clenched his teeth and went back to fighting.  
~x~  
“Wait, what?” Sam sat up straight, glancing between Dean and Gabriel, both of whom had told their part of the story. Dean had even shown Sam the paper with Castiel's story about Bailey and Gabriel written on it. “That’s where you’re going to stop?” Sam asked.  
The others looked back at him, and Gabriel knocked at Bobby’s shoulder as he raised his gigantic head.  
Dean shrugged, standing up. “Stuff was basically the same for the next three hours, fighting and killing and not talking to anyone. We tried to get away, we tried to stop it, but it just kept...”  
He trailed off, shaking his head. “It just kept going, and _going_. Raphael was massacring people, we ended up just stopping fighting for our own lives, and fighting for everyone else’s instead. I ended up running a healing booth with Cupid, he was so exhausted, I―”  
Dean swallowed heavily, not making eye contact with anyone else around the fire. “God, I felt awful. I can’t believe what I did that day. Innocent people, y’know? They thought me ‘n Cas were wrong together, yeah, but what’s a differing opinion nowadays? You don’t start a war over it. I was stupid, I was so fucking _stupid_. Why didn’t I just keep it secret? I _had_ to go flaunting it.”  
Sam nibbled his lip, slight nausea churning in the pit of his stomach. The man pacing beside him was his own brother. He’d taken so many lives, the lives of other people, and that fact unsettled Sam deeply. But it was different in battle, wasn’t it? He didn’t know how to react. “You had...” He licked his lips. “You had a right to love who you wanted―”  
“But I shouldn’t have ever _killed anyone_ over it!” Dean burst out, kicking the fire and sending red sparks up. “I regret it. I regret everything, all right!?”  
Sam gasped, eyes down. “You don’t need to defend yourself. Not to me.”  
Dean frowned deeply, lower lip twitching as he tensed it to his jaw. “Sam, I...” He swallowed so heavily that Sam heard it. “It hurts me, every day. It wasn’t a regular battle. It was my fault. It wasn’t Cas, it wasn’t anyone. It was me. I screwed up. Bigger than I’ve ever done in my life.”  
Sam took a deep breath, eyes scanning Dean’s face. There were tear tracks down one cheek, which Dean wasn’t even trying to hide. He glanced at Sam, and held his gaze.  
“I can never make up for what I did.”  
Sam shook his head, ever so slightly. “No.”  
Dean tensed, but didn’t look away.  
“But you can keep fighting for you and Cas. The right way. You break the curse, and you love each other. You treat each other right, you treat the world right.”  
Dean’s eyes glistened with new tears, and he nodded, shaking a single droplet loose. “All right.” He looked back at the fire, whispering the words again. “All right.”  
“It’s almost sunset,” Gabriel added, glancing at the sky, then back to Dean. “I think Deano here needs to decide what he’s doing tonight.”  
Dean’s shoulders sagged as he turned away, and Sam watched him think it over.  
“If you sit in the cage,” Sam ventured, “we can travel tonight. We’d be at the city by tomorrow morning.”  
Bobby petted Gabriel a final time and stood up, shaking his head, “We got another day to weather. We gotta go to your... Limmy place.”  
Dean turned back, gaze to the ground. “Limn’mere. And yeah, fine, I’ll sit in the cage. Just... when I’m a wolf, don’t... don’t _poke_ me.”  
Sam laughed, then realised Dean was serious. ”Why would anybody poke a wild wolf?”  
“Believe me,” Gabriel said, shaking his mane out as he clambered to his feet, “it’s really quite tempting. Caged wolf, can’t quite get back at you... yeah, you’re gonna want to.”  
“Uh, all right. Promise not to poke you.”  
Dean threw the shawl he’d been wearing into Bobby’s hands, then dragged his feet to the back of the cart, and levered the side up.  
“Ehh,” he said quietly, looking at the small space. It was about long enough for a grown man to lie down in, and a bit shorter in all other directions; roomy to the point of being comfortable, but small nevertheless.  
Dean looked up at Sam quickly, gulping. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll be back in a bit.” He heaved a reluctant sigh and wandered off into the snow, hands on his head.  
Bobby sidled up to Sam, watching Dean slowly become a speck of black against the sinking blueness of the approaching sunset.  
“We only got a few minutes,” Bobby said quietly, patting the bars of the cage and hearing them clang.  
Sam bit his lip, turning his head to Bobby. “Did... Dean say anything to you? After I told him about you being, uh, tortured?”  
Bobby lowered his head, nodding very gently.  
“Am I allowed to ask, or is it too personal?”  
Bobby looked away, but said gruffly, “He said a whole bunch‘a soppy forgivin’-type things. Most don’t bear repeatin’.”  
Sam was silent for a moment. “So he doesn’t blame you?”  
Bobby shook his head. “He does. But now he’s said it, he’ll get used to the idea of not blamin’ me quite so much.”  
Sam sat down on the side of the cage, feeling it tilt under him. “Really stubborn, huh.”  
“Like a mule and a rock had a baby.”  
Sam breathed a soft laugh, eying Bobby. “Hey, um...” he started, waiting until Bobby looked at him before continuing. “I’m sorry about... telling Dean. After I promised not to.”  
Bobby inclined his head, not speaking for a few long seconds. “It’s all right, kid,” he said, eyes moving to the sky. “You had good reason.”  
Sam sighed and gulped, then looked out across the bleak moor.  
He spotted Dean returning, kicking slush under his boots. They had such a short amount of time until the sun went, and Dean seemed to notice this as he walked, speeding to a jog. He huffed up to Sam and Bobby, hand on the cage as he reached them.  
“All right. Stick me in.” He looked very unhappy about it.  
Sam stood back to let Dean climb in by himself, and Bobby shut the door with a fast clack of metal. There were more locks on this cage than Sam would have thought necessary, but he supposed Bobby knew best. A wild wolf had to be significantly more averse to everything when caged.  
Dean let out a slow breath, grabbing for a heavy blanket in the back of the cage. He set it over his legs and looked at Sam with a pointed stare.  
“What?” Sam asked.  
“I gotta take my clothes off.”  
“Oh - oh, right,” Sam said, and turned his back, finding Bobby had already wandered off to tend to the horses. Castiel flew down and landed atop the cage with a chirp, and Sam turned back to watch him set down―  
“Whoa, God―”  
Sam slapped his hand over his eyes and winced over and over, staring back out at the darkening snow. Naked older brother was not what he’d wanted to see right then. Or ever.  
“Sam, you wanna watch this?” Dean asked quietly. Sam froze. “I mean me turning into a wolf, you freak.”  
Sam released a puff of air and went to look at the cage again. Dean was covered by the blanket again, his back leaning against the side bars. He passed Sam the arm protector, and Sam took it and tied it to his arm. As he raised the arm and held it up for Castiel to perch on, the bird did so without hesitation.  
Sam could see the sun. From where he stood, it looked like the bottom half of it was just dipping below the mountains. He glanced back to Dean and saw him staring back.  
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sam said.  
“When you see Cas, tell him...” Dean leaned forward. “Tell him...”  
But he sighed, long and mourning. “Oh, he knows.”  
Then it was like Dean broke. His face rippled into shadow, a snout grew from his nose, his ears shot out into pointed lines. Fur was growing from his skin, dark, enveloping him.  
Sam only had a second to take it in, though, for at the exact same time, the hawk fell off his arm, wings lashing out into fingers, body growing ten times as large. Skin appeared out of nowhere, feathers vanishing.  
Sam gasped and looked between the two of them, now seeing one dark and writhing wolf, and one shivering, naked man.  
“Shit, Cas,” Sam breathed, turning around to try and find something to cover him. Castiel was curled up in a ball, chilled shivers turning to shakes. Sam grabbed the first thing he found, the black travelling cloak that was resting on the seat of the cart.  
Castiel raised an arm and pulled it over himself, standing to drape it over his shoulders.  
“God... I’m so sorry, Cas, I’m just not... I’m not used to having people turn up out of nowhere needing clothes.”  
Castiel smiled, jaw trembling from the cold. “It’s fine, Sam.” He caught sight of Dean pacing in the cage, growling to himself lowly. “Did he go in there willingly?”  
“Yeah.”  
Sam wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, trying to warm him with a rub. Castiel sighed and crumpled into Sam’s arm, resting his head on his shoulder.  
“Good. Are we travelling tonight? I think we might make Limn’mere by tomorrow, I remember this road.”  
“You do?”  
Castiel nodded, pushing his nose into Sam’s collar. “This is the road I ran the night Dean and I left Zamreer.”  
“We didn’t get to that part in the story yet. Dean and Gabe were in the middle of telling me about your battle.”  
Castiel nodded again, heaving a sigh and pulling away. He shivered violently, and Sam guided him to the front of the cart, where he climbed up and wrapped the cloak around his whole body, including his feet.  
“Did Dean tell you about Gabriel?”  
“He kind of just... showed up as a horse.”  
Castiel smirked. Sam sat beside him, and Castiel dropped half the cloak to take hold of Sam’s arm and pull it around him again.  
“Uh, Cas, do you want some more clothes?”  
Castiel looked up from where he was burying his nose in Sam’s shoulder again, perplexed for a moment. “Oh.” He pulled away, letting Sam’s arm drop. “You don’t feel comfortable being so close to me.”  
“That’s not it,” Sam said, kindly. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m a stand-in for Dean, you know? I get I’m only keeping you warm, but it is pretty... intimate.”  
Castiel licked his lips and looked away, watching Bobby stride across the mushy ground with Chevy and Crowley in tow.  
“I miss him so much, Sam,” Castiel said, very softly. “I miss his touch, and his warmth, and how he smells, and how he looks at me...” He dragged in a breath, swallowing. “I mean you no offence, but you are not who I imagine when I feel your arm around me.”  
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Cas.” Sam patted Castiel’s knee through the cloth, squeezing. “I don’t mind, and you don’t mind, but Dean would mind. I haven’t really told him about how close you get to me.”  
“You think he would be jealous.”  
“I don’t think jealousy is the right word for it,” Sam said, as Bobby lifted a whole bunch of things onto the seat next to Castiel, everyone ignoring the wolf's sudden growl. “I think he’d be... not hurt, either, but just...”  
“I understand.” Castiel tugged the cloak around himself again, tying the knot at his throat. He pulled the side of the hood up over his mouth and nose, only his eyes showing.  
The cart lurched as Bobby sat down, the horses already tethered to the cart. Chevy’s long rein was handed to Sam on the far left, and he twisted it around his hand as Bobby flicked Crowley and Gabriel to a trot.  
“Cas?” Sam asked, after they had re-joined the road they’d left last night.  
“Yes, Sam?”  
“When I first met you, when you took the crossbow from me... you had the cloak up around your face like that, like how it is now. I didn’t see your face properly, I thought you were a―”  
“A woman, yes, I know.”  
Sam nodded, rubbing his face as the air whipped cold against his cheek. “It wasn’t just to keep your nose warm, was it?”  
Castiel reached up to drop the cover from his face, and he turned his head to look Sam in the eye. He shook his head.  
“I was trying to conceal... this.” He touched the scar on his chin, between his lip and his jaw.  
“From me, or from everyone?”  
Castiel cupped his face, hiding the scar with his hand. “Everyone.”  
Sam stayed silent, as did Bobby, until Castiel eventually spoke.  
“I am not worried about my appearance being sullied by it. That’s not the issue. It’s about...” he paused, looking back at Sam. “Dean made this mark on my face. Not on purpose; he was a wolf at the time.”  
The wolf in the cart jabbered, his tail hitting the bars near Sam’s head. He glanced back, then returned his focus to Castiel.  
“He would be ashamed of it. It is for his shame that I hide it. He doesn’t know that he did this to me. This morning, when we―” Castiel gasped to the sky, head tipping back, “―when we saw each other. I hid it from him, I put my hand... over it, I couldn’t let him see...”  
“He knows about it, Cas,” Sam told him, as gently as possible. “He asked me to describe you, how you look now, and I didn’t realise you didn’t want him to know.”  
Castiel had a fist over his mouth now, not to hide the scar, but in a gesture of upset.  
“I’m sorry, Cas.”  
Cas shook his head, pulling the hood across his face again. He sat up straight and stared at the road ahead, only just visible in the low light.  
They were silent for a long time, each man looking in his own direction.  
Castiel eventually raised a slender hand out of his cloak when it got too dark to see, and a burst of bright flame erupted from his hand again, rolling into a sphere and hanging above the horses as they travelled. It was golden this time, not silver.  
“Dean and Gabe―” Sam said, suddenly, speaking before he knew it was sensible to, “―they told us about your fight, when you made blades and were―”  
“Sam, please don’t,” Castiel replied, tone harsh. “I would really rather not dwell on battles. Especially not that one.”  
Sam hung his head. “I’m sorry.”  
Castiel was quiet for a whole minute, then, slowly, his resolve gave in, and his shoulders slumped. “Don’t be sorry, Sam. Forgive me, I didn’t think... You’re the only person who doesn’t know what happened in that battle.”  
Sam looked at Bobby, who stared resolutely out at the road, and then at Gabriel, who had turned his head to see the people sitting behind him, but he too said nothing. Castiel's mouth tightened, and he was breathing slowly.  
“Apart from... Anna,” said Sam, “what happened?”  
Castiel dropped half the cloak, so his shoulders were bare to the icy wind. He looked back at the cage, where Dean sat, chewing intently at a blanket. He was making little gruff noises, and he sounded much like any other dog.  
Bobby answered for Castiel, only glancing at Sam once as he spoke: “That was the first night of this four-legged mutt we got in the back there.”  
“Oh.”  
Castiel sucked his lips into his mouth, leaning forward to watch the ground passing like a blur under the cart as they moved. He looked at Sam quickly, then smiled. “It was not all bad. There were some enjoyable moments that evening.”  
Sam tried to smile back, but found himself affected more by the heavy feeling that Castiel was projecting, quite by accident.  
Castiel leaned back against the cage, wriggling his bare toes. They didn’t seem to be cold at all.  
“The fight went on for hours. I never managed to speak with Dean for that entire time, nor show him that Gabriel was still alive.”  
“Bummer for him, ‘cause I kicked ass,” Gabriel added, putting a bounce into his trot. “Literally. Asses are my favourite thing to kick.”  
Crowley headbutted Gabriel and brayed loudly in his ear.  
“Exactly,” Gabriel said.  
Castiel continued, “People were everywhere - the living, the fighting, the dying, and the dead. I was barely able to keep track of my friends, but I knew they were all largely unharmed, at least in that moment. Most of the Guard had entered the fight. I saw Rat and Charlie fighting as partners.” He broke off to laugh gently. “While not the most practised of swordsmen, they worked very well together. Neither of them had a single injury by the time we left the fight. I think the fact that they were shorter than everyone else may have helped.”  
Sam nodded along, pleased that Castiel was somehow cheered by recounting his story. It always went like this: even when Castiel was miserable, recalling the past helped him regain something lost.  
“Raphael was rounding up followers, for no reason I could see - he was blind to their skill, or their motivation in joining. He simply wanted the largest number of people fighting for his cause. Dean and I may have been completely forgotten as the reason for the fight. Quite possibly every man who had heard that initial rumour was now dead.”  
“What _was_ Raphael’s cause?” Sam asked.  
Castiel shrugged his shoulders, cloak slipping down some more. “He was just enjoying the fight. It was a slaughter, a blind rush of bloodshed. People fought for no reason other than because it was exhilarating. There hadn’t been a war in Zamreer for decades - hundred of years, even. The history books only ever mentioned a few small fights, ones easily resolved by careful planning and treaties.”  
“That’s good though, right?”  
Bobby snorted. “Tell that to the amount of bar brawls that break out. People ache for a fight, they just want to smash somethin’ every so often.”  
Castiel nodded in agreement, then looked back to Sam. “It was human versus angel for a while, but that didn’t last once the humans started winning. I find humans are very powerful when they actually work together.  
“It must have been more than three hours later that I actually managed to find Dean.”  
“Boy, was he surprised,” Gabriel muttered from in front of the cart. “Didn’t have much time to freak out about it, though.”  
He caught sight of Castiel’s stiff figure in the swaying light, and lowered his head back to the road. “Sorry bro, your story.”  
Castiel nodded curtly and then began.  
~x~  
“CAS!”  
“DEAN!”  
Castiel saw Dean’s sword falter as he realised a second later that it wasn’t Castiel who had called back to him. He cut down another sword, unsure who the voice had belonged to. The little ginger horse bounced up to Dean’s side, Castiel on her back, looking down at Dean.  
Castiel slid his blade back inside his sleeve in a graceful, practised movement, and held out a hand for Dean to take. Dean took it, but didn’t pull himself up; he pulled Castiel down, and into his arms.  
Castiel made an undignified noise, but then smiled - his eyes flicked behind Dean and with a forceful nod of his head, sent a radiating blast to knock back the people there.  
Dean turned to look, to find a pile of collapsed, wriggling people at his feet.  
“Sweet,” he said to Castiel, and his voice was cracked and dry from disuse and exhaustion.  
“Hey, that’s my line,” the horse said.  
Dean’s knees buckled and he nearly fell backwards, only held up by Castiel's grip. He gaped and grappled with Castiel’s sleeve, then realised Castiel was smiling.  
“Wh... what?”  
“Turns out,” Gabriel said, in the voice he’d always had, “angel Grace is good for horse-i-fying dying angels.” He reared up on his back legs and stomped on an unsuspecting man who had been about to thrust a sword into Castiel’s side.  
Dean looked between Castiel and the horse, stunned back into silence.  
“G- Gabriel―?”  
“Alive and kicking,” Gabriel said, bucking his back legs and sending a group of men tumbling to the ground.  
“Holy...” Dean muttered, then was disturbed by the sound of another round of assailants advancing at his back. Dean circled to return the attack, and Castiel took up position right behind him, Gabriel defending them from the side.  
Dean laughed, some burden lifted. Castiel could feel his mirth taking over the loss, hope drowning out his fear.  
Together they sliced and cut through the battlefield, assailants driven either to retreat or succumbing to injury or death.  
Gabriel was feisty as he fought. He took to being a horse as easily as if it was what he’d always been. Lucifer hadn’t found it so easy, but Lucifer had never had the chance to speak out loud. Castiel had made his first gift to the newly awakened Gabriel, the gift of speech. It had to have used a lot of his power, as it was designed to be a permanent change. Gabriel would never lose his speaking voice, the luxury of which Lucifer and Bailey had never been lucky enough to have. Castiel intended to make this as easy for Gabriel as possible.  
“Hey, Captain!” a small voice shouted from some way away. Castiel saw Dean looking for its source too, and they both located the face at the same time: Garth, the weedy little man with a determination twice the size of himself.  
“Garth, hey!” Dean said back, slapping Garth’s hand into a shake as they approached each other.  
In one second flat, they both reached out and slashed at a blonde woman who was wielding a fireplace poker, knocking the weapon from her hand. She gasped and grimaced, then turned and fled.  
“I heard - uff - rumours, Captain! I get they’re not - watch it! - the most important - thing - right - now, but―”  
“All true, Garth.” Dean ducked a swinging club and grabbed for Castiel, who had been hurriedly blasting strands of light into the eyes of his attackers. He found himself tugged into Dean’s arms, and before Dean could kiss him, he kissed Dean.  
“Whoa,” Garth said, sword lowering as he was turned aside by the sight.  
Castiel broke the kiss with a slow, smooth drag of his hand down Dean’s face, blood trailing in its wake. Dean pressed another quick peck to Castiel’s lips, then looked back to Garth, either defiantly or proudly, Castiel couldn’t tell. Castiel only smiled.  
“Isn’t that...”  
“A sin? Sure.” Dean shrugged, stabbing a man in the shoulder. “Past the point of caring.”  
Garth cleared his throat loudly, then jumped in shock as Gabriel kicked a man away from right beside his head.  
Jody appeared beside Garth, her face flushed from fighting. She only took one look at Dean’s hand tangled in Castiel’s, before nodding in acceptance and moving away again, straight back to combat.  
Dean grinned and pushed his back up against Castiel’s again, and they raised their weapons, watching for oncomers.  
Castiel balanced his blades perfectly. They were spread to his sides like wings, arms held out in the air. Dean’s weight pressed into him from behind, Castiel could feel his own shoulder blades moving against the back of Dean’s leather armour. Dean held both hands on his sword, raised in front of him, a straight line of light and metal.  
As they fought, they moved in sync. Dean moved his right arm to slash his sword across, and Castiel stepped back to fill the space between them again, blade covering the gap. When Castiel moved to strike, Dean’s head turned and he followed, even as he fought his own fights. It seemed like he could fight without looking, but only for a second at a time.  
Raphael was cutting through the crowd again, simply walking through the carnage and lifting people out of his way, fires set in his wake. Why? Because he could.  
Castiel had a passing thought of Meg. How long would she stay unconscious in his bedroom? Would the noise not wake her up? The vibrations? The smell of blood?  
Half of this side of the castle was collapsed now, rubble lying throughout the battleground, among the heaped bodies. Some of the dead were being burnt, and the ash clouds flooded Castiel’s nostrils, making him hiss in discomfort.  
“You good, Cas?” Dean called back, head knocking gently on Castiel’s.  
“Marginally,” Castiel replied, arm sweeping down Dean’s hip. “How are you doing?”  
There was no reply for a second, and Castiel assumed Dean was mid-attack again - but no sword clash came to his ears, only the roar of human exertion all around them.  
“Dean?”  
Dean’s arm found Castiel’s, and Castiel turned immediately, seeing Dean standing still while the chaos reigned around them. Dean dropped his sword and it clattered only for half a note before it landed on a dead man’s arm.  
“Dean―”  
Dean breathed hard, hand on his inner hip. “I’m fine―”  
Castiel took hold of Dean’s arm and dragged him through the battle, blasting friend and enemy alike from his path. The action parted before him, and Dean was stumbling over bodies, slipping in blood, but Castiel’s march was unhindered, making straight for the church.  
“Seriously, Cas, I’m f- fine...”  
Castiel ignored him completely, dragging his heavy feet up the stone steps into the chapel walkway. It was almost sunset, but that hadn’t been noticeable until now. Everything had been ignored in favour of the onslaught of battle.  
“Cas―”  
With bloody feet they crossed the hallowed ground, Castiel’s arm around Dean as he half-carried him, helping Dean down the aisle. They made their way to the pews where the bodies of Gabriel and Anna lay.  
Dean turned his face away as they passed, but Castiel spared their remains a glance: both sets of eyes had been closed, heads tipped back so their faces turned to the aisle. The blood that had spilled from Anna's mouth was dried on her chin. They both looked so pale and grey; they looked like Andy had, in death.  
Dean sobbed in pain and Castiel guided him into a pew, Dean sitting heavily. He winced, hand flying to his hip.  
Castiel’s fingers found the injury, coming away red and slick with blood. He flicked his eyes to Dean, who looked back worriedly.  
“I’m gonna be fine, Cas.” He shook his head as he said it.  
Castiel’s jaw set firm and he ran his hands to the buckles at the side of Dean’s armour, undoing them one by one. Dean grunted as Castiel lifted the leather vest over his head, forcing him to raise his arms.  
“Oh, no - no you don’t,” came Rufus’ unmistakable voice from the other side of the church. “If you’re gonna die, boy, you do it on the battlefield. Ain’t I taught you nothing?”  
Dean huffed a gentle laugh, eyes weakly glancing to Rufus. “I’m not about to die, I just need a quick rest. Seriously, Cas,” he added, trying to shove Castiel’s probing hand out from under his shirt. “‘m fine.”  
Castiel lifted one side of Dean's blood-soaked shirt, revealing a deep, gaping stab wound just above Dean’s hipbone. It might have cut intestine, or kidneys. Castiel wasn’t sure where everything was, exactly, but it had to hurt like hell.  
Rufus sucked in a breath through his teeth, saying nothing. Dean glared at him. He didn’t want sympathy.  
Castiel put a hand on Dean’s flesh, trying to stop the thick trickle of blood that escaped from the wound, trousers already soaked with it. Dean heaved his breaths, one hand curling into Castiel’s shirt.  
“I’m going to have to heal you, Dean.”  
Dean looked up, startled. “No, you can’t, Cas. You gotta keep your power safe. And it’ll tire you out. We gotta keep fightin’. Fightin’ together.”  
Castiel shook his head sternly. “We are not fighting any more. It’s not our battle.”  
“Like hell it’s not,” Dean hissed, wrenching back from Castiel’s touch. “We started this fucking mess, we’re going to finish it.”  
Rufus set a fatherly hand on Dean’s shoulder, standing beside Castiel. “Spoken like a true Captain.”  
“I ain’t Captain,” Dean replied, eyes lowered. “I’m just a kid. I screwed up. And now look.” He gestured at his bleeding hip. Castiel tried again to grab him and still him, finally succeeding.  
“You think bein’ Captain stops when you get a sword in your side?” Rufus intoned, hand still on Dean’s shoulder. “I ain’t Captain any more, but it’s no more than a title. Leadership is what sticks around. Captainin’ stops when you die, boy.”  
“Then why are you in here?” Dean asked, with a curious frown between his eyebrows. “You were Captain once. Why are you _hiding_ when there's a battle going on out there?”  
Rufus dipped his head, acknowledging the question. “Sometimes you cannot be Captain if you’re fightin’. Sometimes you need to step back, step away. Take control of a different situation. If I go off and die on the battlefield, I can’t run the church no more. I can’t help a lost soul with a sword in my hand. Leave the dyin’ to the soldiers.”  
Dean looked up into Rufus’ face, and Castiel saw only a scared little child. “I can’t die yet, Rufus. I still gotta...”  
He stopped talking, turning his eyes on Castiel, who was watching him as he tried to heal him. Castiel had never done healing magic before. It was hard to grapple with.  
Dean curled a bloody hand under Castiel’s chin, swiping a thumb down from his lip. Castiel sighed, mouth trembling.  
Dean suddenly lurched forward, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s lips, hands raking into his hair. They were both frowning, teeth set on each other’s lips, breathing hard. They didn’t turn, or move their mouths, only kissed.  
“The... hell...”  
Dean broke away with a sharp sigh, green eyes intent on Castiel.  
Rufus was backing away, head shaking. He was too shocked to speak, and maybe that had been Dean’s intention, but Castiel doubted it. It had been the heat of the moment, and Dean’s energy had flown through the kiss, and for that moment, Castiel had felt every nuance of pain that Dean felt. Physical and emotional.  
Dean was numb, empty of any passion for life outside of Castiel. It hurt Castiel to know that, as much as it made him feel loved. There were so many beautiful things in the world, and Dean cared about none of them. He felt remorse for the lives he had taken today, but he was not allowing himself to feel it. He felt... closed off. He was blocking everything out - everything except Castiel. His fallen angel.  
Castiel lowered his eyes to look at his hand where it still lay on Dean's injury. It was almost healed, the skin was just sliding back together. It was astounding to watch. It was like seeing the sword that had stabbed him pulling back out of him, skin going back in time to before it was sliced.  
Castiel pulled his hand away as Dean sighed in relief. Their eyes met, and Castiel knelt on the floor in the aisle, fatigue weighing down his limbs.  
“We’re not going to fight, Dean,” Castiel said very quietly. “If you get hurt again, I can’t help you.”  
Dean shook his head, then closed his eyes and stilled for a long moment. When he re-opened them, he nodded.  
“All right.”  
Castiel leaned up to kiss him again. “Thank you.”  
Dean stared down at him for a long while, shoulders hunched.  
“Dean?”  
“Yeah, Cas?”  
“I need to tell you something.”  
Dean‘s eyes searched Castiel’s face, from his eyes to his lips, taking in the blood that was all over him. He brought his eyes back to Castiel's, then said, “Shoot.”  
Castiel took a deep breath. “I tried to tell you earlier, but it was never the right moment. I’ve wanted to say it every day since I met you. Every day...” he blinked hard, shaking his head, “Every day it’s gotten worse, more painful to carry.”  
Dean took in a sharp breath. “Cas... are you okay? You’re not sick or something, are you?”  
Castiel smiled and looked to Dean’s shining eyes, and his lips trembled. “You could say that, yes.”  
Dean grabbed Castiel’s arms, stroking him as he began to breathe hard again. “Cas... oh, God, please tell me you’re going to be okay.”  
Castiel’s smile split into a wide grin, eyes shining with tears. “Yes.” He laughed. “Yes, Dean, I’m going to be okay.”  
Dean was clearly confused, but he flickered into a nervous laugh as Castiel tried to will as much love as possible towards him.  
“Dean, I think what I just said has mislead you, I’m sorry.”  
“What... what were you trying to tell me?”  
Castiel put his hand on Dean’s face, stroking stubble and filthy skin. Dean leaned into his touch, head tilting.  
“Only that... I will fight for you. That I’ve - I’ve wanted you since the first day we met. And I never understood, I never knew what it meant.” His voice broke, and his smile faltered, then sprang straight back, eyes shining with it. “I know it now, Dean. I know what I feel for you. It’s not going to end, it’s not going to stop, and every day it’s only going to grow stronger.”  
He swallowed hard, taking in Dean’s expression. It had barely changed since he’d begun talking, only now, his eyes were just that much brighter.  
“And I will love you... until the end of time.”  
Dean closed his eyes, a slow smile curling his lips. His eyelids opened again, only a crack. He looked down at Castiel, his thumb finding the fallen angel’s parted lips, stroking the broken skin.  
“I know, Cas.”  
Castiel laughed, head lowering. He nodded up and found his lips tied with Dean’s, him leaning down and rolling into it, bloody and salty, with grit and dirt and ash in their mouths.  
It was the most meaningful kiss Dean had ever placed on Castiel’s lips. It meant ‘I love you too’.  
“Well, howdy-do there,” Gabriel said, trotting into the church. “Whoa, that’s freaky, look at that.”  
Dean and Castiel ignored him until they came up for air, hands not leaving each other’s faces. Gabriel was standing beside them, staring down at his own empty human vessel.  
Castiel stroked Dean’s knee, then stood up, going to put a hand on Gabriel’s neck to comfort him. Dean hesitantly stood up too, then went and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist.  
Rufus was still in the corner of the church, in a heated conversation with Bobby, both of whom were looking at Dean and Castiel. Their sharp voices carried to where Castiel stood, but he dared not listen. Dean just continued hugging Castiel from behind with his back turned to the other men.  
Gabriel started to trot away from the bodies, hooves echoing like clapping thunder in the chapel.  
Castiel took Dean’s hand and followed the horse, but only got a few feet before Dean dropped his touch.  
Castiel glanced back, and then found himself frozen to the spot.  
The church suddenly darkened, the sun descending behind the mountains, out of sight. Night was falling.  
Dean stood in the middle of the aisle, gaze locked with Castiel’s, but gripped with fear. There was something wrong with his eyes, and he seemed to be rippling. His face seemed fuzzy, like Castiel couldn’t quite focus on it.  
“Cas,” Dean said, but it came out like a gruff bark, only just recognisable. “Cas!”  
His body clacked, throbbing into another shape. It grew smaller, his legs breaking the wrong way, dark shapes exploding from his skin.  
Castiel cried out in shock, as did Gabriel.  
Dean was gone. In his place, where he’d stood, was a black dog, wriggling out of his clothes, tearing and growling. Castiel saw the white flash of teeth, heard a nasty bark.  
That wasn’t Dean, it was an animal.  
“What in God’s name―”  
Rufus picked up a sceptre, wielding it like a mace.  
“No!” Castiel shouted, hand raised to stop Bobby and Rufus, who had run forward when they saw the dog standing in the aisle, its muzzle drawn back into a fierce growl.  
“It’s Dean! It’s Dean, don’t hurt him!”  
“What are you talking ab-... that’s a _wolf!_ ” Bobby was scared, the tremor coming through in his voice.  
“He turned... he turned...”  
Castiel had to back up as the wolf bore down on him, front half lowered into a prowl. He was preparing to attack, Castiel could see that. Gabriel was backing up too, horseshoes clopping on the floor.  
“Catch him!” Rufus bellowed, and Castiel realised that that was what they had to do. Dean or not, this animal was dangerous.  
His ears were pointed like a cat’s, tufted and fluff. His mane was stark black, like the rest of him, and in the dimming light of the church, each limb was barely discernible from the others. His fur rippled and moved together, glistening with spit around his mouth as he turned his head this way and that, baring his teeth at the four other creatures in the church.  
Bobby had made it to the front doors, and closed them - they were locked in, trapped with a wild animal.  
But... it really was Dean. The wolf was Dean.  
Castiel raised his hand, trying to calm the wolf. Dean’s head wouldn’t stay in one place long enough for Castiel to make eye contact, so everyone remained fearful, edging around each other.  
This must be Death’s curse. Meg’s curse. And it was permanent.  
Castiel was never going to see Dean again.  
“Catch him!” Rufus roared again, holding the sceptre out in front of him, eyes as wild and determined as the wolf’s were.  
Dean’s eyes were still green. They were feral and fast-moving, but they still shone with a fragment of that bright soul. It was faint... and fading.  
Castiel inched closer, half-crouched with his arm outstretched to Dean. Dean snapped at his hand, and Castiel’s instinct was to pull his hand away, but something kept it there. He shuffled closer, trying hard to catch Dean’s eye and hold his gaze long enough to soothe him.  
Dean looked like he wanted to bolt, and Castiel couldn’t blame him. He was surrounded by three wary men and a horse, all of whom were circling him, edging closer.  
Dean had nowhere to run. Castiel’s hand found his contorted muzzle, wrinkled as he pulled his lips back in a snarl. His lips were black too, and his tongue was a bloody pink.  
Castiel’s fingers pressed gently to Dean’s snout, and Dean tried to jerk backward, but Castiel held him with magic. He needed to look at him.  
Dean finally met Castiel’s eyes. Castiel gasped slowly, seeing the mess of fear and fury that cascaded through Dean’s mind. He was still human in there, somewhere, but it was like his humanity was being kept was kept inside a locked box, not allowed to be let out.  
The rest was all animal, it was all wolf. Dean snapped his fast jaws, and Castiel had to pull away then, else his hand be broken.  
“Catch him, goddamn it,” Bobby said, pacing from side-to-side, too scared to approach but uncomfortable thinking he was doing nothing to help.  
Castiel braced himself, then leapt forward, throwing his arms around Dean and holding onto his chest, stopping him from wriggling free. He snapped and snarled, barking and trying to bite, but Castiel held a firm hand on his nose, with fingers locked around his long jaw.  
Rufus ran forward and helped Castiel stand up, the wolf in his arms. He was about as heavy as a person, and Castiel was buckling under his weight, but he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t―  
Rufus took Dean’s back legs, stopping them from flailing, and Bobby took Dean’s muzzle, so Castiel could focus on holding his front legs, arms crossed over the wolf’s front.  
Dean writhed and complained, bucking furiously - he was a powerful creature, and the three fully grown men were still finding it hard to control him.  
“To the - the confession booth!” Bobby let out, head turning quickly to see how far it was. It was the only place they could put him, they had nothing else to restrain such a creature.  
Gabriel was trotting back and forth, worried. He kept out of the way as the men struggled with Dean, grunting and desperately trying to stop him from breaking free.  
Sharp claws tried to slash at their hands and faces, but nothing hit them, only pilose fur - Dean’s fur was as soft as the hair on his head, and just as wonderful to run fingers through. But it was also thick, and tufty, and the body beneath it was all muscle.  
They reached the confession booth door. Bobby kicked it open, and they heaved the animal inside. It was so difficult to stop him biting, scratching - Rufus was pushed out of the way as Bobby and Castiel took over, and Dean’s back legs dropped onto the bench inside the booth.  
His claws scrabbled on the wood, thumping on the back wall. He was so heavy in Castiel’s arms now. Bobby had to let go of Dean’s muzzle as Castiel was too far inside the tiny enclosure for him to reach. There was only room for one person in there, and now there was a full-grown wolf alongside him.  
Castiel gasped and cried out as he fought with limbs and a thudding tail that whipped at his legs. Bobby grabbed Castiel by the shirt and hauled him free of the space - Dean leapt after the closing door, a front paw scraping out and slapping on Castiel’s face, dragging his lip down―  
Bobby slammed the door shut, the wolf yelping sharply before withdrawing his leg. The door wobbled as Dean’s heavy body slammed into it, trying to break free. Its wood panel was cracking already; it was no match for an enraged wolf.  
“Seal it! Seal with with mojo, Cas!” Bobby yelled, slapping the side of the booth to emphasise.  
Castiel lowered the hand that been pressed to his chin and stared down at it. Fresh blood stained his skin, mixing with Dean’s blood that already coated his hands. He looked up and saw Bobby’s panicking face, and raised his hand.  
From his outstretched palm, there came a strange kind of sensation - nothing he could see, but a feeling. It tingled and twitched his fingers, and he didn’t even have to think about what he was doing.  
The crack in the wall of the vibrating booth stopped spreading under Dean's assault, and Dean yowled loudly as he bucked into it a final time and it didn’t give.  
Castiel dropped his hand with an exhausted sigh, eyes falling closed. Rufus’ hand found his shoulder, shaking him gently, reassuring.  
“We gotta...” Castiel said, gasping for air suddenly, “We have to move him, he can’t stay here - I have to leave, I have to...” His thoughts pummelled his mind, and his vision was weakening, twisting and shading his eyes with bright lights and darkness.  
He turned and looked about the church, breathing heavily. The sun, long gone, had drowned the church in blue in its absence. Nobody had lit the candles yet, and the furthest reaches of the giant hall were almost black now.  
“I have to find Death,” Castiel panted, bloody hand running through his hair. “I have to leave, I can’t leave without his p- power...”  
He looked to Rufus and Bobby, who stared back, clearly in shock. Castiel swallowed hard, nodding in thanks, then took off, leaving the men and Gabriel with the wolf.  
~  
The castle seemed quiet now, like it was dead. Every person in the city seemed to be down in the central courtyard, already departed from the world, or about to be. The death toll had to be massive. And for what? Nothing. Nothing at all.  
The world would never understand. The world would never accept. For two men to love each other would remain an offence punishable by death for centuries, _millennia_ to come. One courtyard in Zamreer seeping through with blood wasn’t going to change a single thing.  
Castiel’s blood-red feet pounded on the carpets that stretched out before him. Their plush weave had never seemed more like gravel under him. Every foot he pressed down felt like it was ripping his skin apart, the blood ingraining itself in the soles of his feet.  
He climbed stairs two at a time, then three - he wasn’t moving fast enough. His spell on the confession booth might have weakened by now, he had no idea how long it would last. Rufus and Bobby were in danger, as was Gabriel.  
He came to the library, heaving for breath. He threw the doors open, both hands on the handles as he parted them.  
The library was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the horizon, lingering from the sunset. It was deserted. Death wasn’t here.  
Castiel was about to turn away and head back down, unsure where he would go next. But he stopped when he saw something flicker in the corner of his vision. He looked back; in the middle of the library was a candle. It had not been there a second before. It was floating.  
Castiel took a hesitant step forward, then ran the rest of the way. He didn’t have time to be cautious.  
In the light of the single flame, was Castiel’s bonsai tree, its pot resting on the marble floor. A shadow was cast away from it like the estuaries of a river down a mountain, and as Castiel took the last step to it, the shadow grew and contorted. Castiel found himself tripping backward as he tried to move out of the shadow’s way, but it overtook him, swallowing his bare feet in a moving line.  
Castiel looked around his feet and realised it was still the shadow of a tree, but a different kind; not his bonsai. He recognised this shadow, realised it was a message, a message from Death.  
The Tree of Souls.  
Castiel did not waste another second. He fled the library and swept through the corridors, back down, floating down staircases - he descended three whole flights before he realised he was using magic to cover them so quickly, and promptly stopped. Afterwards, his travels seemed too slow, but he knew it was necessary.  
He hurtled back through the fighting crowds, not touched by blades or fire or other fallen angels’ magic. He was more powerful than everyone in this crowd, and he could set them aside like they were playthings. He only had to move the first ten people or so, and from then on, they saw him coming and moved out of his way, ceasing their battle to let him pass.  
Raphael grinned and tried to approach, but Castiel only held up a flat palm inches from his face, and Raphael stilled. Castiel had never acted so determinedly around him, and, perhaps out of respect, Raphael backed down. As soon as Castiel had passed, however, the fight fell back into its throes, and Raphael was hurling fireballs at people again, laughing.  
Castiel flung open the chapel doors and ran back down the aisle, not taking even a moment to catch his breath. He was exhausted beyond belief, having used his magic to heal, and the weight of the day’s events engulfed him like he was slowly suffocating - but he powered through it. He needed to see this through. If Meg woke up, the first thing she would try to do, would be to kill Dean. As a wolf, he would be an easy target. Castiel had to protect him. They had to get to safety.  
“Gabriel!” Castiel barked, feet throbbing as they hit the church aisle. “Bobby, I need to take Dean to the edge of the city. I have to go to the Tree - the Tree of Souls.”  
Castiel grasped Gabriel’s mane in his hands, using all of his remaining strength to keep himself upright. He forced himself back into a walk, lifting a hand to the confession booth once more. With a crack, it came away from the wall, leaving a gaping, messy rectangular hole.  
“The hell you doin’ to my church,” Rufus lamented, but Bobby whacked him on the arm, stepping forward to help.  
Dean howled from inside the booth, an echoing, deep noise that haunted Castiel’s eardrums. It seemed endless - it just kept pulsing in his mind, a continuous, painful note.  
Dean was scared. Castiel ran to the wooden box and set a hand on the side, keeping his feet away from under it as it floated. He shushed the wolf gently, knowing he could hear.  
Dean howled again, sadder this time. It was so unbelievably loud from up close, Castiel’s head felt like it would burst. His eyes blinded with specks of colour for a moment, his whole mind inundated by the sound.  
“Dean, please, I have to take you out of here. If anyone sees you, or hears you―”  
The howling was terrible. Castiel could no longer think, his mind was overrun by the vibrating, trembling note that devoured him.  
Castiel placed his hand back to the wooden door and whispered an apology, not even able to hear his own voice over the outcries. He closed his eyes, and focused a blanket of silence over the confession box. The howling receded into nothing, now only the sound of scratching and the pounding of Dean’s distressed feet escaped.  
Bobby was gathering Gabriel to him, nodding his head to indicate that Castiel should follow. He did so without question, Bobby leading him and the floating box to the tunnel in the side of the church that led to the graveyard.  
“Godspeed,” Rufus called to them, and Castiel turned his head back to see Rufus standing on the podium at the top of the church, three fingers raised to the sky. Castiel bowed, expressing a deep gratitude for his help.  
Then Castiel turned and ran, chasing Bobby and the clapping sound of hooves as they echoed down the corridor. Dean followed in the box, thumping into its sides as it suffered a roll of turbulence.  
Castiel whispered constant apologies, and prayers, and if none of those would work, wishes.  
Bobby let the door at the end of the passage crash open, and the light that came in was only one colour, a deep blue. There was no green of trees, not in the early night.  
Castiel felt like he could breathe again once they made it into the open. There was no bitter stench of blood here, as there had been in the courtyard, no smoke or ash, nor the woody smell of the old church.  
Bobby had climbed up onto Gabriel’s unsaddled back, and the horse was trotting towards the edge of the garden. Castiel followed them, legs burning and heavy. The box whooshed as it came behind him, the wolf grumbling unhappily.  
Gabriel led them swiftly out of the graveyard, and across a bridge that let them overlook the central courtyard. Castiel had seen this bridge from his bedroom window; it was wooden, and painted white. Gabriel sped up when something exploded in the chaos of the courtyard, fire and light going up in a bang.  
Castiel almost felt the need to stop, to put out the fires of the burning bodies. They should be buried, given to the Earth, not burned to the sky. The sky was for the souls, when they went to Heaven.  
Castiel shook his head and instead chased the galloping hooves ahead of him, horseshoes glinting in the yellow glow of the fire. Another part of the castle collapsed, and a collective yell drifted from the fighters, all sounding horrified.  
There was so much destruction in the air. It was blinding, and Castiel found himself trying to see through tears. He slapped them away, feeling the wetness running into some of the blood that caked his hands. He could smell his own sour scent, of sweat and dirt amongst the blood.  
Gabriel turned a corner, and the riot fell out of sight, the cries and clashing sounds dying out soon after.  
Gabriel was leading them to the stable. Castiel sped up, now that he knew where they were going.  
He matched the pace of the horse, and they ran side-by-side until Castiel overtook him, feet slapping on the flagstones as he flew down the dip into the open doors of the stable. It was dark in here, so much darker than it had been hours before. He almost couldn’t see anything. When he and Dean had come here at night, everything had seemed easier to take in. Without Dean... everything felt like a shadow.  
Castiel ran straight to Chevy’s stall, but realised she was not there.  
“Over here, bro,” Gabriel shouted from the other end of the stable, the open side that led out onto the road.  
Chevy stood there, already hitched to a cart. Castiel swept his hand and set the scuffling wolf’s box onto the back it, which rocked with the weight. Chevy neighed and turned her head, surprised that someone was actually paying her any attention to her, when she'd been readied hours ago.  
“Wait,” Castiel said breathlessly. “Lucifer―”  
“It’s a one-horse cart, Cas,” Gabriel said, trotting on the spot. Bobby dismounted, patting Gabriel heavily with a hand.  
“I can’t leave him―”  
Dean growled loudly, thumping his whole body into the side of the box. It creaked, and Castiel realised its magic was weakening. He couldn’t and shouldn’t keep it up for too long, it was surely draining his power. They had to get someplace where he could open the box and set Dean free, where he couldn’t hurt anyone.  
“I have to leave,” Castiel said to himself. He left Dean on the back of the cart and ran, returning to the stable, running straight to where Lucifer’s stall was.  
“Lucifer,” he whispered, and Lucifer nodded upward, nose hitting Castiel in the chest. “Lucifer, I have to leave, I have to run, I can only take one horse―”  
 _You’re abandoning me?_  
“No, no,” Castiel insisted, shaking his head. He was pulling away and then back again, fully aware that he needed to go to meet Death as soon as possible. He had to find a way to get Dean reverted to human.  
“I’ll be back for you,” Castiel promised. “One day, I will return for you.”  
 _How long?_  
Castiel paused and pulled Lucifer’s head into his arms, stroking his neck. “I don’t know how long.”  
Lucifer made no noise, and Castiel shivered against him, then pulled away, hand lingering on his head.  
“I am sorry, brother,” Castiel whispered. “Forgive me.”  
 _Don’t forget me._  
Castiel pressed a long kiss to the horse’s forehead, hands stroking his ears. “I will never forget you.”  
Then he began to run; he ran right past Gabriel, who was pawing the dust. He ran past Bobby, who shouted something, maybe a question, but Castiel ignored it, unsettled and distracted.  
Grabbing Chevy’s long rein, Castiel leapt into the seat of the cart, checking that Dean’s box was securely placed on the back. Then he turned to face the road of the city ahead, ready to leave.  
“Hyah!”  
Chevy jumped straight into a trot, then after only a few paces, turned it fast and heavy, and Castiel guided her in the direction of the corners they needed to take. He remembered the route Dean had used only that second day they had known each other. To the Tree of Souls, the place that Dean went to dream.  
At first the roads were clear, as everyone was in the central city, but as he got farther into the streets, awkwardly turning corners with the heavy cart in tow, there were more people. Maybe the news of the battle had not yet spread all the way here, but Castiel doubted it.  
There were injured people here, he realised. Lights were on inside buildings, and people rested in the doorways. Others called across the street, their tone desperate and worried. The answering shouts were mostly reassuring.  
Castiel recognised the street he and Dean had ridden down, when Castiel had stood up and trailed his hand through cloth that hung from above. The cloth was there now, but Castiel felt none of the joy he’d felt that first time. And he couldn’t let his filthy hands touch anything lest he ruin it.  
They were almost there. Chevy whinnied, head thrashing as she ran. Castiel let her slow down, pulling back on the rein gently so that he could look around the circular courtyard where they had emerged.  
It looked completely different in darkness. The moon was just visible at the edge of the sky, gilding everything in silver. The tree looked colossal, its branches spread like veins on a body, climbing to the stars. It was a shadow, a wrinkled and spidery shadow.  
Chevy suddenly stopped, without Castiel’s prompting. The cart tilted into her, and she was forced to take a single step forward, but then she whined and backed up a few more.  
Castiel couldn’t see what had her spooked, but as his eyes scoured the deserted courtyard, his gaze picked out what he was meant to see. On the same corner of the flagstones where Lucifer had once been dragged out of the moat surrounding the tree, stood a man.  
It was Death, and he was enshrouded in a cloak that Castiel had never seen him wear. It was large, and it spread from his shoulders like a stilled waterfall, and pooled at his feet like black flames across the stones.  
Castiel gasped quietly and slipped off the cart, feet slapping hard as they touched the ground.  
“Castiel,” Death said, friendly.  
“You have a message for me?”  
“I do.”  
Death beckoned Castiel closer, and despite him being Castiel’s trusted friend, his mentor, teacher, almost his parent - and having saved his life earlier today - Castiel felt apprehension. Death was intimidating just by his nature, but as he stood there, he seemed to radiate what he was in essence: he was Death, the oncoming darkness, the unknown. He was the other side, the side that the living never reached until the end.  
Castiel walked slowly forwards, cautious. Death smiled, making no move at all. In the distance, people shouted, and the echo of another explosion sounded in the air. It could have been another part of the castle falling, or another pile of bodies blown from the ground for Raphael’s entertainment.  
For a moment, Castiel stood before Death, as only a man facing another man. Without realising what he was doing, Castiel did what felt natural. He bowed, one knee bending as the other slid back across the stone. He rested a hand on his crooked knee, head lowered.  
“Castiel,” Death said, “Do not bow to me.”  
Castiel raised his head and looked into Death’s affectionate eyes, but made no move to stand.  
“As I am now, I am nothing more than you.”  
“You are... Death.”  
“But I am caged. My power is weak in comparison to what its potential is.”  
Castiel saw this as no reason to stop kneeling, but he stood anyway, head down in continued respect. “Why did you ask to meet here?”  
Death made a slightly surprised noise. “You don’t recognise it?”  
Castiel squinted and looked about himself, seeing the cart behind, Chevy stomping her feet uncomfortably and the gigantic tree to his right, winding its way to Heaven.  
“I do not,” Castiel said. He looked to Death, hoping he would be enlightened.  
“This place is the Hellmouth, as you call it. This is where your angel Graces fell and tangled when you were plucked out of Heaven.”  
Castiel drew his head back in disbelief. “No, that place was a field, there was no... tree...”  
He thought hard, and recognised that he had not been himself when all their Grace was one. A tree was something that could easily be missed.  
“Meg had this courtyard built in honour of her newfound power,” Death smirked, a bite in his tone.  
“Yes, Dean... he said that the courtyard was new.”  
Castiel turned this information over in his mind. This place had no magic now, all the magic had been in the Grace. The whispering Dean heard here years ago would have been nothing more than echoes in the basin of the courtyard, amplified by the surrounding buildings.  
“I called you here to give you a message, Castiel. The message is this: I apologise greatly for having to do what I did to your mate. There is no way to undo it, not while my power is lost.”  
“But―” Castiel turned quickly back to the cart, running his hands over the side of the box. Dean barked from inside. “But he cannot be a wolf... not forever.”  
“Meg’s command to me was as clear as the pendant Dean wore on his neck.”  
Castiel looked fearfully to Death, waiting for a true answer.  
“She told me to kill him, and I could not do that to you, knowing how you would be consumed by his loss.” Death hung his head, perhaps in shame. “I could only work under the bind that Meg kept me under; she worded this curse herself - but I did the best I could to save him.”  
“How - how is _this_ \- saved?” Castiel gestured furiously between the box and Death, a wisp of anger touching his voice. “Will I ever have him back? He’s an animal! There’s nothing of Dean left in there!”  
Death drew his chin up, boldly declaring, “He is every bit of Dean Winchester as he was before. His soul is still there. But he... will be lost. To the curse.”  
“Lost?” Castiel’s throat was tight, his despair strangling him.  
“The animal will take over. Soon there will be no human in him.”  
“No!” Castiel rushed back to Death, grabbing his lapel with both hands, shaking him. “You have to do something!” A frown was drawn between his eyebrows, and he was not begging. It was a command, and he knew he had no right to command Death, but it just came out like that.  
He could feel the force of his being rushing inside him, and he was not a lost child, he was not a man who needed another person to help him do anything. He could do it all on his own.  
He lifted a hand to the cart, fingers spread. He blasted it with power, a pure will to have Dean return to him, human, unharmed.  
“Castiel, stop.”  
“No.”  
He threw another rush of magic at the cart, and it lurched, Chevy whinnying as Death followed Castiel’s forward step. The box thrummed, glowing slightly. Castiel hit it again, and the wolf inside began to howl once more, his calmness wrenched away by the new magic.  
“Castiel, you cannot change―”  
“I will change it!” Castiel roared, pushing Death away from him. “I am not weak! I am not lost, I am not a baby!”  
He threw another burst of intention at the box, and it rattled roughly - then the wolf began to yelp, crying out in unmistakable pain. Castiel dropped his hand and ran to the casket, stroking its side, eyes wide in apology.  
Death put a warm, bony hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and pulled him back. Castiel stumbled but went with it. Death touched the side of the box, and the glowing wood subsided into darkness once more.  
The yelping and whimpering died away, and Castiel heaved a sigh of relief, hearing the impatient scratching return, of Dean knocking at the sides.  
“You cannot help him,” Death said again, not looking at Castiel yet. “He will be lost.”  
“You must do something,” Castiel repeated, stern. “You must.”  
“I will,” Death said, decidedly. “My prophecy is about to become truth.”  
“Which of them?”  
Death looked straight at Castiel then, skeletal face cast into strange shapes by the moonlight. “That Dean is the day, while you are the night.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“It means,” Death said, placing a hand back on the box, beckoning Castiel with the other, then placing a hand over Castiel’s heart, “that you will be together forever, but eternally apart.”  
“I don’t see how that is better.”  
Castiel’s chest started to glow golden, and the blood on his shirt appeared to be glittering in the light that came from under Death’s hand.  
“It means that one day, Castiel, you and Dean could be together. His mind will not be lost. Your mind will not be lost. But you may never see the daylight again.”  
Castiel looked up to Death’s pensive face. “Please tell me this curse can be broken.”  
Death lowered his head, his hands, and his gaze. “Until I have my magic I cannot be sure. Meg is truly a mystery, even to me.”  
“What does Meg have to do with this, exactly?”  
Death pointed to his mouth, revealing the colours that twisted his lips together, keeping a secret inside. As he pointed, he reached up with two fingers and pulled the covering off, and it fell limp into his hand, still glowing strangely; not light, not shadow.  
“How can you do that?” Castiel asked, bewildered. “How can you remove that part of your curse so easily when you couldn’t before?”  
“Meg underestimated my power. She always did. Tonight I am free because she used your power together with mine, something that should not have been done. While strong for her, it weakened everything else.”  
Castiel blinked, understanding.  
“My secret is this: when Meg captured me, I was the reason the angels fell from Heaven. She used my power to capture you all.”  
Castiel frowned. “Why?”  
“For power, Castiel.” Death smiled, somehow finding Castiel’s question endearing.  
“But if she already had _Death_ in her grip, why―”  
“One is not enough, Castiel. With an addiction, you find something that works, and then you want more. Your need is never satisfied, even when you think it is.”  
“My love for Dean is much like that,” Castiel said quietly. He looked to the cart and sighed.  
“But it is not surprising,” he added, “that you were how she did it. Your power is great.”  
“That it is.”  
“How did she capture you?”  
Death raised his eyebrows in a discouraged expression. “That, I do not know.”  
“Oh.”  
Castiel felt very overwhelmed, like he was trapped in a bubble and forced to share the space with a world of heavy thoughts. Death saw it in his face, and set his hand on Castiel’s, drawing it into a warm fold between his slim fingers. At once, Castiel felt quite light-headed, but pleasantly so. His mind was slowly calming, running with cool colours and soft shapes.  
Castiel reached for Death’s mind, asking questions, so many questions―  
 _Murder, Castiel?_  
Castiel gasped, squeezing his eyes tight shut. _I have killed so many people today..._  
 _Killing Meg is not just ‘one more’. Killing Meg will not bring you any relief, nor make your life any easier._  
 _But it would break Dean’s curse?_  
 _No. It will lengthen it indefinitely._  
Castiel screwed up his face, shaking his head. His jaw ached with the pressure of clenching it, trying hard not to let his lip wobble. _I... can’t_ ―  
 _Shhh, Castiel. Your freedom will come, in time._  
The burden of information still tickled at him, but Castiel nodded in thanks. As he let his hand slip free, the connection with Death broke and the soothing clouds in his mind lifted, darkness and the bitter smell of smoke returning.  
“What shall I tell Dean?” he asked quietly.  
“That is up to you, Castiel. Communicating with him may be difficult now.”  
Castiel pressed his lips in a line and looked at his blood-splattered feet.  
“Do not tell him about his brother. His knowledge of that will present itself, and he needs to learn to trust the boy on his own terms.”  
Castiel nodded.  
The confession booth rattled as Dean threw himself into its side, and it shifted jerkily on the cart, nearing the edge.  
Death glanced at it, then Castiel. He lifted a single finger and pointed it to the box, and Chevy snorted in alarm as the box vanished, replaced by a sturdy set of metal bars, the wheels reinforced, the set of it slightly wider. There was now enough room at the front of the cart for two horses, but even though Castiel was grateful for the thought of Lucifer, he could not return to the city. He couldn’t look back. Not even to thank Gabriel and Bobby.  
“If you want to leave now,” Death said, “I will help you leave.”  
“Thank you.”  
Castiel paused to look at the black wolf that sat still and sullen in the middle of the cage, staring blankly at Castiel. There was none of the love in his eyes that Dean looked at him with. If his soul was in there, it was buried too deep to see.  
Death helped Castiel climb up onto the seat of the cart. Castiel couldn't help looking behind to see the strange creature - a monster - looking back at him. The wolf was beautiful, yes, but it was not Dean.  
“Give me your hand,” Death said to Castiel, turning to face the same way Castiel did. Castiel hesitated, then placed his hand in Death’s, while he stood by the side of the cart.  
Death pointed at the buildings ahead, and as he did so, Castiel felt a burn run through his arm, like Death was taking something from him.  
“What are you doing?”  
“The wall that keeps us both inside is made from both your power and my own.”  
“I know that.”  
“Therefore your―” Death smiled, “power o’ love - works only if both of us concentrate our power.”  
“I thought using both kinds at once was bad.”  
“It is.”  
Castiel nodded. “But I want to escape.” Yes, that had been the idea all along. This is why he needed Death.  
“Are you not going to come with me?” Castiel asked, seeing a hole appear in the building ahead, like a tunnel with rippling, shining sides.  
“It is not my time to leave.”  
“That would not stop me, if I were in your place.”  
Death smirked at him, sunken eyes shining. “When you are Death, some things make you stop. No matter the desire to do otherwise.”  
“I am afraid I do not have that control,” Castiel admitted.  
“Of course you don’t,” Death agreed. “That’s what makes you human.”  
Castiel wanted to disagree at first, but the resolve on Death’s face as he spoke just made it so easy to believe. Castiel was human, despite his species.  
Death dropped Castiel’s hand, smiling at him, and gestured him ahead. Chevy had already started plodding forward, glancing warily at Death before moving to a walk.  
“Thank you!” Castiel called back.  
Death only raised a hand in farewell, and then disappeared completely.  
Castiel found the tunnel was not as strange as he thought it would be. It was a haze of shimmering light, granted, but it felt calm and soothing. The wolf made no sound at all as they went through it, but as they emerged into a grassy field, he began to wail again.  
Castiel turned and shushed him gently, fingers touching the bars. Dean stopped whimpering to take a step closer, snuffling at Castiel’s hand. His teeth were still drawn back in a snarl, and once he had tasted Castiel’s scent, he turned around and sat in the corner of the cage, sulking.  
Castiel watched him sadly, until Chevy ran over a bump, and the ground under the wheels turned to dirt rather than grass.  
They were on the road to Evacéra, the bridge ahead in the distance, the white city of Zamreer towering behind them. Castiel looked through the bars of the cage to watch the city growing smaller. It looked different than last time he saw it from here: not only was it night this time, but now it was missing a few of its turrets, some of the lower ones.  
As he watched, a spray of shining, glittering clouds burst from one side of the castle, and after frowning in confusion, he realised it was a window giving out. A massive window, one that surely spanned a great room. The one in his bedroom, perhaps.  
Meg must have woken up. Death must have deemed it safe for her to return to consciousness. Although, why he couldn’t have just kept her unconscious for the next five-and-a-half years, was beyond Castiel. Maybe using his power together with Castiel’s had weakened him.  
Castiel sighed, glancing at the grumbling black wolf that huddled in the cage, its ears twitching.  
It was really too much to comprehend. Castiel looked back out at the road, finding a thrill in him at the sight of approaching freedom.  
It wasn’t true freedom, though. Dean was with him, but he was not Dean. It was wrong, it wasn’t going the way they’d planned. He had expected mishaps along the way, but this was beyond anything he’d imagined.  
He refused to cry. He gritted his teeth, took Chevy’s reins firmly in both hands, and guided the cart into the new world.  
~x~  
Sam patted his knees. “Then what happened?”  
Castiel had been silent for a good few minutes, and Bobby had only moved to look back at the wolf behind them.  
“We followed them,” Bobby said, indicating Gabriel with a nod. “Caught up in the middle o’ the night, Castiel at the side of the road tryin’ not to get mauled by this here beastie.”  
“He’s not trained, then. Like a dog, I mean. Or like... Cas was? Dean said the hawk came fully trained.”  
Castiel smiled and shrugged one shoulder. The cloak was pooled around his waist now, and Sam could feel the chill of Castiel’s skin where his arm pressed to his own sleeve.  
“I have a feeling Death may have set some boundaries for me. As a hawk, I would be more prone to flying off. Or staying in one place, I don’t know. Hawks might be territorial.”  
“They are,” Sam and Bobby said together.  
“You both know that?” Castiel asked, turning between them.  
Sam smirked stiffly and Bobby harrumphed.  
“Hawks taste good, can’t blame me,” Bobby rumbled. “Though I have gone off them since you started with your... issues.”  
Castiel sniffed, then turned to Sam with a glint in his eye. “Girl issues, Sam called them.”  
“Whoa, whoa - no. I thought you were a girl. Seriously, don’t hold that against me. Dean told me you were a girl, and he never told me that your issue was actually that you turned into a bird in the daytime.”  
“I must admit I did little to dissuade your assumptions of my gender. In fact I―” he broke off to smile, “I may have used some magic at that point as well.”  
“To do what?”  
“To make my voice... less...”  
“Manly.” Sam smirked, hearing Castiel’s gentle snort. “You have the deepest voice ever.”  
“Death informed me early on that when I met Dean’s brother... you would think I was female. He didn’t say it in so many words, but he hinted that I should keep that illusion up until things settled into place.”  
“And by ‘settled into place’ you mean you getting shot in the shoulder.”  
Castiel was laughing, a croaky coughing thing. Sam sighed and pulled the cloak up around his shoulders, making him take it around his throat with a hand.  
“If - _when_ we break this curse, you don’t wanna get sick, all right? Stay warm.”  
Castiel nodded and leaned against Sam. Sam rolled his eyes and threw an arm over his shoulders. God, he was really cold.  
“You gotta have a death wish or something to be half-naked out here, Cas,” Sam said softly, resting his chin on Castiel’s head. His hair was a bit greasy, and he smelled like dirt. Somehow, though, Sam saw some of the appeal that Dean saw: Castiel did not smell unpleasant, not even a little.  
“I do, actually. Have a death wish, I mean.” He sighed. “I hate the cold.”  
Sam shook his head. “Why don’t you wrap up warm, then? Don’t go freezing to death before you see Dean.”  
Castiel paused, thinking for just a few seconds. “Dean’s absence... It makes me want to feel numb. The cold takes away my feeling. Only a few hours more than a day from now... I could see him. And I’ll be warm again.”  
“Yeah.”  
“But... I could also know that I’ll never see him again. Either way, it will be an immense turning point.”  
Sam was quiet for a long while after that. He stared at the road, and at Castiel's chest, rising and falling as he took soft breaths. He looked at Bobby, who was still set on the road, then at Gabriel and Crowley. Gabriel hadn’t spoken tonight, perhaps lost in thoughts of the story he’d told today.  
“Cas...” Sam bit his lip then let it free again, waiting until he was courageous enough to keep talking.  
“Cas, we’re gonna be right near the city by the end of tonight. We’re staying at Limn’mere tomorrow.”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m going to spend the time looking for Death’s object.”  
“Yes.”  
Sam licked his lips. “What... what happens if I don’t find it?”  
Castiel shook his head under Sam’s chin. “No. You will find it.”  
“I know Death prophesied, but... what if I don’t?”  
Castiel raised his head and looked at Sam very carefully. “You will.”  
Sam blinked at the sky. “Okay, fine. But, just tell me. What are the consequences of me not finding it before we have to be in the city on Sunday morning?”  
Castiel slouched down, wrapping the cloak very tightly around his neck. “Death will not regain his full power. Meg will continue to rule Zamreer, possibly forever, as an immortal, for as long as I still have my Grace. Dean and I would be separated for our entire lives. He would be a wolf, I would be a hawk - rarely, if ever, seeing each other. Of course, eventually, my Grace could run to nothing, and I will... be immortal as well. And then Dean would die. And I would have no way to follow him.”  
Sam sucked his lips between his teeth then blew out a puff of hot, cloudy air. “Well... that kinda sucks.”  
“No pressure.”  
Sam blurted out a laugh, eyes crinkling. He made Crowley jump as he wheezed, almost hysterical. No... _completely_ hysterical. He took a good few seconds to regain his composure, then leant back against the cage, giggling again as the bars clattered.  
“Sarcasm, I believe,” Castiel added. He was proud of himself.  
“Yeah,” Sam snorted, rubbing the ache off his face. “God, I really don’t see this ending well. You realise - hehe - you realise what you guys are all depending on, right?”  
Castiel’s shoulders lifted slightly. “Enlighten me.”  
“I’m a thief, Cas. I’m a lonely, independable, irresponsible, kind‘a... I dunno, I kind of remind myself of a mangy rodent.”  
Castiel was smiling back at him, and when Sam sent him a questioning look, Castiel’s eyes twinkled. Bobby was looking at him too.  
“What?”  
“You’re amongst friends,” Castiel said. “You’re loyal, and kind, and brave, and someone I have already trusted with my life. Dean’s life too. You think about the future, you think about others. You’re as responsible as any man can be, Sam. You are clever, your talents as a criminal are even of good use. Your soul is as warm as the sun, I see that in you. You are so very much like your brother.”  
He held up a hand as Sam tried to protest, and continued, “You may not look like him, and you may not always act like him, but... your heart is as pure. You are, in every way, a Winchester.”  
Bobby sensed the end of the little speech, and leaned back to add, “And even if you weren’t... family don’t end with blood. You’re family, Sam.”  
Sam let out a tiny breath, eyes closing as he lowered his head.  
“Uh,” he said. “Heh. Thank- thanks, guys.”  
“No, Sam.” Castiel touched Sam’s chin, raising him to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”  
Sam gave a half-smile, blinking. He drew in a deep breath and savoured the moment, looking back out to the road as he gulped down a fleet of emotions.  
He had a family, he had Ellen and Jo and Bela... But now he had a bigger family. It was playing havoc with his happiness. It seemed to be intensifying by the day.  
“Anyway,” Sam said quietly. “What happened next? You found Cas at the side of the road, and―?”  
“Bundled ‘em up again, drove ‘em out to my place, the castle,” Bobby said.  
“Come dawn, while still on the road,” Castiel said, “Bobby found a hawk sitting beside him instead of me.”  
“You don’t remember that, though, do you?” Sam asked.  
Castiel shook his head. “The next thing I remember after dawn hit me, was the following night. We were at Bobby’s castle by then. I was... very confused.”  
“I blinked and suddenly there was a damn bird next to me instead’a the sobbing pile o’ mush.”  
“I was not a pile of ‘mush’,” Castiel retorted.  
“If you wanna say you weren’t cryin’, go ahead, but as I recall, you were sniffin’ back tears all damn night.”  
Castiel was silent, lips pursed.  
“And I had a naked man to deal with,” Bobby continued. “Dean was a tree full o’ cats more freaked out than Castiel here.”  
Castiel lowered his head, sighing through his nose. “An understandable reaction. The last thing he’d seen was me looking back at him, scared at what I saw. And then he woke... to find that I was a bird―” Castiel opened his mouth wide and sucked in a painful gasp, frowning deeply. “It must have been terrible, I can’t imagine...”  
Sam patted Castiel’s back. He looked back at him, smiling sweetly.  
“You are not a rodent at all, Sam. Although they are quite companionable animals... I do think you are more of a dog. A very friendly dog.”  
“Sticks his nose in your junk and licks your face every time he sees you,” Gabriel nickered, nodding upwards. “Yep, sounds like Sammy.”  
“It’s Sam,” Sam said automatically, then snorted as the horse _winked_ at him.  
Bobby picked up after a minute or so, and said, “Took them a whole damn month to quit mopin’ every sundown and sunrise. You ever seen two grown men pretendin’ they’re fine and then turning around and finding them sobbing into a goddamn pillow? That ain’t fun.”  
“I can imagine,” Sam muttered, wincing slightly.  
“Bobby told me that Dean... did not take it well at all.” Castiel heaved a sigh. “He destroyed an entire wing of Bobby’s house, I saw the wreckage.”  
“As a wolf?”  
Castiel and Bobby both made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.  
“No. As a man.” Castiel looked sullenly down at his bare feet. “Bobby would never allow an untamed wolf inside the house.”  
“But he was trained eventually, right?”  
“Never. His curse is different from mine. He is completely a wolf, and the only person he trusts, even now, is me. And only because I have spent so much time with him. Even with Bobby―” Castiel looked to Bobby, who didn’t return the gaze, “Dean doesn’t respond.”  
“He seemed okay with me, though,” Sam said. “After you killed the wolf murderer hunter guy. He just came right up to us.”  
“I used magic, Sam.”  
“But―”  
“I needed to know he was safe, and he never would have approached if you were there.”  
“I thought you had to be looking at him.”  
Castiel shook his head. “I found other ways. It is never enjoyable, to control another being in such a way. I don’t know why Meg found it so pleasurable.”  
“Different people, Cas. Different morals, different ability. Different limits.”  
Castiel smiled. “You are wise, also.”  
“Shut up.”  
Castiel huffed a laugh and touched Sam’s hand where it rested beside his leg. “We should stop soon, I feel hunger setting in.”  
“Yeah. You know I―” Sam stopped suddenly, thoughts clicking into place. “Wait, Cas...?”  
“Yes?”  
“About you controlling Dean. And him not approaching if I was there.”  
“Hm?”  
Sam frowned, staring out at the road. “That first night, when I was with Dean at that place, when the woman got... mauled. By wolf-Dean.”  
Castiel was silent, and Sam took that to mean something.  
“He saved my life, Cas,” Sam said. “He attacked a person who was going to kill me. That was a defence, it wasn’t random, it wasn’t out of hunger, or any kind of need. Just to protect me.”  
Castiel was still silent. Sam looked at him, waiting for an explanation.  
“I did not have time to find a weapon,” Castiel said, almost whispering. “I was with Dean at the time, I saw what was about to happen, and I―”  
“You used Dean? To kill someone?”  
Castiel looked away from Sam, uncomfortable.  
“I didn’t want to do that, of course I didn’t. But I...” he looked back to Sam, lower lip unsettled. “I had to keep you safe.”  
Sam nodded. He leaned back against the cage, head hitting the bar. “Of course,” he said, surprised by the chill in his tone. “Because you need me. To get Death’s thingy and break your curse.”  
“Sam―”  
“No, no, it’s cool. I get it. You and Dean being together is really important.” He smiled at Castiel, entirely forced. “No hard feelings, seriously.”  
Castiel straightened his posture and glared at Sam. “You are being ridiculous.”  
“Really.”  
“Yes. I saved you because you are worth saving.”  
“How do you know the woman with the axe wasn’t worth saving? She might’ve been the world’s best axe-thrower or something.”  
“Sam.” Castiel was struggling with his frustration, looking to Bobby for help. Bobby only blinked at him, shrugging.  
“Sam, I saved you because you are Dean’s brother. Because he rescued you, because he needed you. He still needs you.” Castiel shut his eyes. “ _I_ need you. Please don’t lessen your value.”  
“I’m only worth something because of a prophecy.”  
“ _Sam._ You are worth something because I say so. Bobby agrees. Dean agrees. I understand you’re feeling pressured here, and there is a big expectation of you―”  
“Oh, _really?!_ ”  
“―but don’t take it out on _me_.”  
Sam’s frown deepened, a hand wavering until it found his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Castiel breathed hard by his side, but then Sam heard the click of a swallow and the slump of cloth as Castiel leant back in his seat.  
Sam sent out an apology with his thoughts. A gentle pat on his hand let him know it had been received and accepted.  
Bobby grunted. “We all done now?”  
“Yeah.” Sam looked out over the side of the road, the light from the sphere only reaching the edges, everything beyond that was endless black.  
They didn’t talk for hours after that, but the silence never lapsed into anything Sam found too uncomfortable. He was immensely relieved at how forgiving Castiel was. He hadn’t meant to say anything he’d said; in that respect, maybe he was more like Dean than he thought.  
They stopped twice - once to find food and water, and once to take a much-needed break. The road was hard, and Sam needed to stretch his long legs. He put up with Gabriel’s remarks about his height. The little horse only came up to his chest - one day Sam would think of a really good short joke that would shut Gabriel up forever on the subject.  
Eventually the muted colours of the night and the rhythmic bump of the path sent Sam into a light doze, awoken with a jolt by any sudden lurches in the road, or passing comments Gabriel made about the direction they were headed in.  
The next thing he knew, the light of approaching dawn was tickling at Sam’s eyes, and he rubbed at his face. He ached all over, and was surprised to find they were still moving, Bobby still at the reins.  
“We g’na stop?” he mumbled, blinking hard at the light on the horizon.  
“In a moment,” Castiel said. “Bobby, pull over here.”  
Bobby was already pulling over, flashed Castiel a peeved glance as he’d been a second delayed with his instruction.  
The path gritted under the wheels of the wagon as it slowed, and Gabriel shook his head roughly when they came to a standstill.  
Sam hopped off the cart, going to look at the wolf. Dean was asleep, curled in a tight ball like a cat. Sam suddenly understood the urge to poke at him. Although, maybe stroke was more like it. Dean looked very soft, and his fur was all tufted up on his neck where it curved.  
Sam glanced at Gabriel and Crowley, who had been let loose along with Chevy - and Castiel, who was wandering off into the trees to relieve himself. Bobby was shaking out a blanket, folding it.  
Sam looked back to the wolf, and gently reached through the bars. Oh, yes, that was soft. That was really very lovely. His fur was so much nicer to touch when he wasn’t soaking wet and covered in mud, as he’d been the night Castiel had killed the man with the wolf trap.  
Sam smiled, and scrunched his hand in Dean’s fur. The wolf’s breathing stuttered, his peace disturbed.  
“Shh,” Sam said, fingers scratching at Dean’s ears. He knew dogs liked that, wolves surely weren’t so different.  
The wolf yapped gently, lifting his head. He yawned, and while exposing his many, many sharp teeth, he looked rather adorable. Even if human-Dean wasn’t a morning person, wolf-Dean certainly looked friendly enough.  
“I’m your brother, I’m Sammy.”  
The wolf blinked at him, unimpressed.  
“I sometimes talk to a made-up Brother. He isn’t as fluffy as you.”  
Dean smacked his lips, pink tongue lapping at his own nose. Sam stroked down his neck again and smiled.  
“You’re way more handsome as a wolf, no matter what Cas thinks.”  
Dean’s ears flicked and he stood up suddenly, shaking himself down with a wobbling flappy noise, rocking the cart. Sam perched his hand on the edge of the bars and grinned.  
“You’re not untamed,” Sam observed. “You’re just unhappy.”  
Dean whined and flopped back down, chin on the wooden base of the cage.  
“In five years, Cas never realised you actually don’t mind other people?”  
Dean snuffled.  
“And... heh, you never paid much attention to Bobby ‘cause you were still pissed at him.”  
Wolves had eyebrows, which Sam hadn’t known before. Dean was very expressive. He looked up at him, strange green eyes giving him a very gloomy look.  
“Should I let you out of the cage?”  
Dean only blinked, then licked his nose again.  
Sam shrugged. “Eh, why not.”  
He went to the rear of the cage and unlatched the hooks and barriers, one after another clanging as they lifted. He pushed the door wide open and stepped back to let Dean out.  
Dean lifted his head with a whiny noise, then stood and plodded to the exit, sticking his head out to see around.  
Castiel emerged from the woods, and immediately caught sight of what Sam had done.  
“No!” he shouted.  
Sam shrugged at him, seeing no danger at all. Dean actually leaned his head close to Sam’s and sniffed his face, then licked him.  
“Eugh,” Sam said, rubbing his face down with the inside of his sleeve.  
Castiel had stopped running closer, swayed by what he’d just seen. He walked cautiously forward, raising a tentative hand as he went. Sam grinned and petted Dean on the head again, and Dean sat back on his haunches. He kind of looked like he was smirking at him.  
Castiel never got any closer, though, because that was when the sun decided to rise; straight away the blinding light pierced Sam’s vision, and he had to raise a shielding hand to see again.  
Castiel the hawk screeched, a pile of black cloak left on the ground, wings leaving the Earth behind.  
“Oh, dude. Clothes, please.”  
Sam turned to see Dean with his arms around his body, simultaneously trying to cover himself, and keep himself warm.  
“Uh.” Sam ran to the front of the cart and grabbed the badly-folded pile that Bobby handed him wordlessly. He placed them in Dean’s hands, then looked away.  
The cart bounced as Dean dressed himself, Sam hearing the flopping sounds of cloth as Dean wrestled his trousers on, more kicking than pulling.  
“How’s Cas?” Dean asked, voice gruff like someone who’d just woken up from sleep.  
“Good.”  
“Elaboration would be nice.”  
Sam smirked, then creased his eyebrows into a tiny frown. “That scar on his face... He... told me tonight how that happened. It was right after you first turned, when they crammed you in the confession booth. You just kinda lashed out and caught his lip.”  
Dean swallowed, standing up and pulling his second boot on, then going for his gloves.  
“Hey, Dean?”  
“Mm?”  
“How come you wear gloves now?”  
Dean shrugged, eyes not leaving his gloves as he briskly put them on. “I dunno. Somethin’ about wolf paws and human paws. Keeping them separate.”  
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to put boots on your wolf persona?”  
Dean looked at him disbelievingly. “You really wanna try and put boots on a wolf?”  
“Um. No.”  
Dean bumped his eyebrows and there rested his case. He turned away, buckling the second side of his armour, then pulling the cage door back down with a snap.  
“I don’t think Cas knows you wear gloves.”  
“Does it matter?”  
“Did you know that the only time he’s worn clothes in five years is the nights I’ve been with him?”  
Dean looked back, startled. “He’s been naked this whole time?”  
Sam grinned. “No, he wears your travelling cloak.”  
“Really?” Dean glanced to the place Castiel had taken off as the sun rose, and indeed saw only the crumpled black cloak, which Bobby was currently retrieving.  
“I think he usually takes it off before he transforms. Just, when I’ve been with him, he’s been kinda distracted.”  
Dean gave an upward nod, half-grinning.  
“He wanders off into the woods every so often to have some private time,” Sam decided to reveal, speaking quietly.  
“I don’t really need to know when he poops, Sam.”  
“No, I mean―” Sam frowned, ruffled. “I mean he - y’know. Thinks about you. While. Y’know.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly not ‘y’know’ing.  
Sam licked his lips and rolled his eyes. “I mean he jerks off. He kept wandering off on his own tonight when we stopped to eat, and we could hear him from where we’re all sitting, we can’t really make him shut up. He’s really... ugh... really loud.”  
Dean was grinning, open-mouthed. “Yep, that’s my boy.”  
Sam shook his head and snorted, then stalked off. He was grinning, yes, but that was purely because it was hilarious. A little weird and gross - okay, a _lot_ weird and gross, but Dean was chuckling gleefully; Sam could hear it even from where he sat now, up in the front seat of the cart.  
He was pleased, knowing Dean was happy. For whatever reason. Yeah, fine. Maybe Sam actually was a bit of an over-friendly, over-large puppy. He had the eyes for it.  
~  
They travelled again, the long hours stretching out excruciatingly. The scenery was different now; it was back to the tree-lined pathways that made up southern Evacéra. Sam recognised the road, definitely. He’d crossed these streams and skipped down these awkward inclines on his way from the city. On the first day after escaping, even. That meant they were close.  
“How far, now?” he asked.  
Dean was trotting right beside Sam on Chevy, keeping slow pace with the wagon. He screwed up his lip in thought. “Eh, maybe half an hour. Man, this place is weird. Been about ten years since I saw it last. Hey Bobby, you remember?”  
“Eyep.”  
“Yeah, there was this one summer, I just got a girlfriend the first time, and then this asshole came and told me I was coming out to the country all summer. Time I got back, she’d basically forgotten my name.”  
“Not as memorable as you think, huh,” Sam muttered, grinning. He felt Dean’s pain there, just a bit.  
“I made a pretty pathetic sixteen-year-old, didn’t I, Bobby?”  
“Eyep.”  
“Good summer though. Spent almost the whole time shooting things.”  
“I’ve never shot a crossbow,” Sam said.  
“Yeah, I could tell,” Dean replied. “Wouldn’t trust you to either, not if you’re not wanting to take your fingers off.”  
“Hey, if I can’t find Death’s thingy-object in a couple of hours, say - would you teach me? Like you did with Cas?”  
Dean’s grin only made it to half of his face. “How much you wanna bet you find it in three minutes flat?”  
Sam huffed. “Don’t put so much faith in me, Dean. If I screw up you’re just going to be pissed.”  
“You’re not gonna screw up,” Dean said offhandedly. “Three minutes flat, that’s my bet. Bobby, you want in?”  
“Nope.”  
Sam grinned. “Bet’s off, Dean. Just... don’t flip out if I can’t get it, all right? I don’t intend to leave until I have it, so be―”  
“Patient, yeah, yeah.”  
“Seriously, Dean. I get that it’s Death’s prophecy and all, but don’t you think it’s a little much? To just expect someone to find something that nobody else could? In existence? I’m the _only_ one?”  
Dean shrugged. “You’re my brother. My only brother. You’re the only one that escaped from Zamreer’s prisons, in its seven-hundred-year history. You’re the only other Winchester in existence, I think you’re capable of doing a few impossible things.”  
Sam sighed. “Thanks.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
~  
It was well past midday when they made it to Limn’mere. Sam actually recognised some of the landmarks they passed, but only from the descriptions Dean and Castiel had given about this place.  
The wagon was not faring well on the sodden leafy ground, and more than once Sam and Dean had to get down and push it out of a muddy ditch, getting it rolling again.  
Finally Dean signalled the turning, and Bobby let him lead them through an opening in the branches, like an entryway to another world.  
As it was early winter, this place looked nothing like how Sam had imagined it, with the bright greens and the lush leaves and the canopy of dappled sunlight that Dean and Castiel had described. Now, it was pokey and brownish, with only a hint of green still here and there, on trees that had not yet lost their leaves.  
The weak sunlight washed the plants a pale gold, and everything glimmered beautifully. In the shaded areas, the grass was still frosty and crunched underfoot.  
The wagon creaked to a halt, and Bobby slipped down to untether the horses. Dean slapped Chevy’s rump and she whinnied happily, trotting off to find some defrosted grass. Crowley looked even happier, and Sam had never before seen the donkey _run_.  
“Damn, this place looks like Heaven to a horse,” Gabriel said, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s like there’s food _everywhere_.”  
“Looks like Heaven to people, too,” Sam said, smiling. “Yeah, I could see myself coming here when I die.”  
“That place right there?” Dean said, pointing to a patch of grass between the side of the clearing and the edge of the water, where an icy, half-frozen pool lapped at the sand. “That’s where me ‘n Cas had our first kiss.”  
He ran forward and spread his arms, obviously very happy to have returned after so long.  
“Right here!” Dean thrust an arm out and gestured to a grassy bank that dropped sharply into the side of the water, “that’s the first place me ‘n Cas―”  
“Yeah, I know, I know!” Sam interrupted.  
“Did what?” Dean grinned, testing.  
“You―” Sam grimaced. “Did your... thing. With the...” He shook his head and clamped his mouth firmly shut.  
“With that what, Sammy?” Dean prompted, smiling at him evilly. “Did what, did what?”  
“Shut up.”  
“Bitch.”  
“ _Jerk_.”  
The sky presented a flutter of wings right then, and Castiel swept down from the leafless branches above the pool. He screeched out a note and Dean held up his arm, muttering pleased greetings to him as he stroked his feathers.  
“Guess I’ll start looking for Death’s thing now,” Sam sighed.  
“You do that,” Dean agreed. “I’m gonna get a fire going, ‘m freezing.”  
Sam patted his thighs with his fingers, looking around where he stood. “So... literally anything.”  
Bobby slammed the back of the cage as he withdrew the blanket from inside, the one Dean had been chewing last night. “You’ll know it when you see it, kid,” he encouraged.  
Sam swept his hair back with a hand and then began his search.  
He didn't know where to look. He went where his feet took him, wherever his eyes fell. He figured a methodological search would be no less beneficial, given that there was no logic in _any_ of this.  
Three minutes came and went, and Dean said nothing. The fire was built, the blanket became the only thing they could sit on without getting a damp backside, and Castiel the hawk had apparently taken to walking through half-frozen grass, looking at things.  
Sam walked around the whole place, examining everything thoroughly. He even left the enclosure for a while, climbing the bottom halves of trees and looking into long-abandoned birds’ nests. Dean called him back, insisting it would be inside the leafy part.  
The whole place was like an outdoor room, and it was incredible the way it was all so sealed in. There was a wall of trees and branches and shrubs, only one single clear exit, which the cart stood just inside of. The leaf-canopy roof covered everything except the pool.  
The sun was moving across the sky, and it was several hours before Sam started growing too agitated to actually look at anything properly. He’d already stood on the top of the big boulder and scoured the entire pool, and stepped on every rock around the far side of the water, nudging ferns out of the way with his feet.  
A lot of this place was evergreen, so even the parts that were dead for the winter were all balanced out by the few that still thrived. It was a miracle how well-balanced and incredibly well-placed everything was here. It was like it was made for falling in love.  
Sam particularly liked Dean’s wharf, the one he had made himself. Sam sat there for a full ten minutes, staring at everything in sight. He even lay back and looked up at the sky, squinting against the sun. They had less than a couple of hours of daylight left, now.  
Sam felt quite saddened by that. Not only because the passing of sunset and sunrise forced Dean and Castiel to make the hated change, but also because he would lose Dean again. He had nothing against having Cas around, of course.  
It was just that... Sam had only just found his brother. He’d known him a day short of a week. They’d been aware of their blood connection for only two days. It simultaneously felt like a lifetime, and only a single minute.  
Of that time, Dean had been human for so few of the hours Sam had spent with him. There had not been much time for bonding. There would always be their lifetimes to come, but these moments, now - these were the precious ones.  
“Brother,” Sam whispered, hand over his eyes as he tried not to picture Dean in his mind. He wanted to speak to _Brother_ , the one constant throughout his experiences for as long as he could remember.  
“Brother, I don’t think I can do this.”  
Silence.  
Sam had expected a reply. Never in his life, when speaking to Brother, had he ever expected a reply. He felt his stomach lurch at this realisation. The changes had been great, and they weren’t stopping. Change ruled his life now.  
“Brother... I think it’s time I said... goodbye to you.”  
Sam clenched his eyes shut, the hand on his face turning to a fist.  
“You know how much you mean to me. And I’m not about to forget you. And I’m always gonna talk to you, you’ve always been there for me, you’ve always been there when I needed someone. You’re not... you’re not being replaced.”  
Sam sucked in a breath as he realised that that was exactly what was happening.  
“I don’t mean that. It’s just that I have a family now. I have a real brother, and a full, complete... thing, you know? I had family before but it was always... never complete. Now it is. There’s Dean, and Cas, and Bobby. Bobby knows Ellen, Ellen’s my mom - my fake aunt, whatever... Jo, Bela...  
“I’ve never been alone. When I felt like I was, though, you were... you _are_. You’re there. Always. I wanna say thanks for that.”  
Sam gulped, tapping his forehead with his closed fist. He allowed the sunlight to make his eyes water, then he closed his eyelids again, seeing coloured lights in his head.  
“You were my childhood friend, my childhood family. You helped me with everything I went through. But you were never real.” Sam sighed heavily. “I just needed someone to talk to. I have that now. I’m not alone. Brother... I think it’s time for me to grow up.”  
Sam’s lip clenched uncomfortably, threatening to wobble. “Thanks for everything. You’ll always be my Brother, as well. Dean, Cas, and you. I have three. Three brothers.”  
Sam sighed again, not yet opening his eyes. That was it, it was done. He felt the need for internal company fade and pass on. His mind felt less crowded.  
“What’cha doing?”  
Sam jerked his his eyes open, finding his face full of horse. He shoved Gabriel’s muzzle aside, rolling away from him on the dock. He sat up, feeling disoriented.  
“Nothing. Just... saying goodbye to a friend.”  
Gabriel looked on, serenely. “It’s a good place for goodbyes, isn’t it?”  
Sam nodded slowly.  
Gabriel watched him stand up, then snorted gently at his back. “Dean figures it’s ‘time Sam learned to shoot some sons of bitches’,” Gabriel said.  
“Direct quote?”  
“Direct quote.”  
Sam grinned, patting Gabriel on the shoulder. “I’ll go take a look at that, then.”  
“Cool. I’ll be here.”  
Sam eyed Gabriel sadly, knowing he had a few goodbyes of his own to say. He left the dock and walked around the pool, on the grass. He made his way to the campfire, which was surely ruining the beautiful grass. Dean had set it in a circle made of stones, though, and Sam considered that it might look nice as a permanent fixture, maybe once some moss grew in.  
“No luck with the Death-object-crap?”  
“Nope,” Sam said, and plonked himself down beside Dean, who had taken his boots off and was toasting his toes with his legs spread towards the fire. The blanket was quite soft, if damp and smelling exactly like wolf-Dean had when he’d been rolling in soggy leaves.  
“Guess you’re gonna have to find it when Cas is here,” Dean said.  
“Uh-huh.”  
“You’ll find it, Sam. Don’t freak out about it.”  
Sam sighed and clutched his legs to his chest. Bobby was brushing Chevy down, and Sam watched the repetitive motion of the strokes, somehow soothed by it.  
“Are you ready for what might happen, Dean?”  
“What, if you don’t find the whatever-it-is?”  
Sam nodded his head sideways. “Or what would happen if I do.”  
Dean’s eyes shifted, then landed back on Sam. “I get Cas back.”  
“Yeah.”  
Dean stared at Sam for a while, then one side of his mouth curled upward. Sam mirrored it, and it broke into a full-fledged grin as Dean fell back with a laugh, hands raking over his own hair.  
“Oh my God, I’m gonna have Cas back.”  
Sam patted Dean’s knee, chuckling.  
“Shit... Sammy, I missed him. I’m gonna... When I see him, I’m just gonna...” He laughed again, bare feet wriggling next to the fire. “I’m gonna kiss him.”  
Sam smirked. “It’s actually still weird. I’m totally cool with it, you both being guys, it doesn’t freak me out so much as before. It just still strikes me as something that would be strange to see. Two men kissing. I only ever saw girls and guys.”  
“We fit together different,” Dean mused, smiling at the near-bare roof of leaves. “There’s stubble on our faces, and it’s scratchy... His hands are strong, he doesn’t touch like a girl does, he just _grabs_... I mean, yeah, he does these little soft touches too, but his hands are so much bigger than girls’ are. He never kissed anyone but me, so basically everything he did at first, it was only things he picked up from me. He copied my breathing, and how I moved my tongue...”  
Dean bit his lower lip, glancing to Sam as he sat beside him. “You’re not screaming. You’re usually screaming.”  
Sam smiled. “I had an epiphany.”  
“A what-now? Do I want to know?”  
Sam laughed. “I just figured, once you guys are together, finally, you can go off and do your own thing. You’d basically go off and travel, like you wanted, and I’d probably end up crashing with Bobby or going back to Ellen. Everything’ll be the same as before. And the epiphany was that I only have to suffer your stories and crap this time ‘round. One more day. Curse could be broken this time tomorrow, and I’ll never have to hear about man-on-man make-outs ever again. Might as well save the screaming for when I’m back waiting tables at the Roadhouse.”  
Dean sat up on his elbows, considering. “That’s reasonable of you.”  
“I’m a reasonable fellow.”  
“Are you now.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
Dean grinned, and Sam snorted a tiny laugh.  
“So. Crossbow.”  
“Yeah.” Sam looked at the wagon, where Chevy’s saddle was sitting, the crossbow leaning against the saddlebags. The ring Castiel had made was in there. Sam smiled at the thought.  
“You still got the ring you made Cas?” Sam asked, as they both stood up.  
“Of course,” Dean said, tugging it out of his pocket. It was absolutely a perfect gold, and it radiated warmth like the fire they stood next to.  
“Why’d you ask?” Dean inquired, pocketing the ring again.  
Sam shrugged, trying to hide his smile. “Like to see you give it to Cas, is all. Unless you were gonna do that in private―”  
“Private? Hell no. Everyone needs to see that crap.”  
Sam huffed a grin, taking the crossbow as it was handed to him. Dean still had bare feet, and Sam was somewhat intrigued by that. He didn’t seem to mind the cold grass at all.  
“All right,” Dean said, snatching the crossbow back before Sam could break it, or his fingers. “Hold it like this.”  
“Fingers out the way, yadda yadda,” Sam added, having learned a lot from the stories he’d been told.  
“Hey, don’t get cocky, you’re still liable to take a finger or a head off. There’s a reason we never gave one of these to the beginners in the Guard.”  
“What, and a sharp, pointy bit of metal is safer than this thing?”  
“Yes. Now shut up and watch me.”  
Dean loaded the crossbow and aimed it at a tree, and Sam realised it was the very same tree Dean had taught Castiel to aim with. Dean let the arrow fly, and it lodged itself perfectly in between the two split branches of the gnarly hardwood.  
“Wow,” Sam breathed. That was the most impressive shot he’d ever seen. The tree hadn’t even been touched, and yet the arrow had been caught by it.  
“Hang on, I’m gonna get something for you to aim at,” Dean muttered, heading for the cart.  
Sam shouldered the unloaded crossbow and practised aiming. Yeah, he could do this, it wasn’t too difficult. He just needed something to aim at. He’d saved an apple in Dean’s saddlebag, so he could try just like Cas had.  
“Uh,” Dean said.  
“Hm?” Sam didn’t look away from the tree, lifting and aiming again.  
“It’s nothing, I just... found something―”  
 _Oh, shit_. Sam realised straight away he should have kept an eye on Dean as he’d gone through the saddlebags. Of course, five years of never finding the ring, and today had to be the day.  
He rushed to Dean’s side, seeing Dean holding - yes, that was definitely a ring.  
Dean held it flat in his palm, fingers spread. He glanced to Sam as he approached, lips in a curious ‘o’.  
Wait... that wasn’t the ring Sam thought it was. This one was silver, yes, but it didn’t have the grooves in it that Castiel had set into Dean’s ring the other night.  
“This is... this is Cas’ ring,” Dean said, some low emotion in his voice. “I didn’t realise he’d kept it.”  
“The one Meg made him wear?”  
“‘Property of the High Priestess’.”  
Sam picked up something miserable in Dean’s posture and tone, but it wasn’t reminiscence.  
“Dean, you’re not seriously wondering if he kept it because he wants to, I don’t know, go back to her, or something. Are you?”  
Dean’s fingers twitched around the ring and his jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.  
“Dean,” Sam sighed, plucking the ring right out of Dean’s hand. It was circled with a swirling white, like ink in water, frozen into the silver. Sam realised after a second that it was a snake.  
“Dean, he kept it because he wanted to do what he _told_ you he wanted to do. Which was to throw it back in Meg’s face some day. Remember?”  
Dean flicked his eyes to Sam’s, then nodded, smiling gently. “Yeah. Violently.”  
Sam sighed and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, then pressed the ring back into Dean’s hand. “Put it back where you found it, I think Cas will be looking for it tomorrow. When we get into the city, and we break the curse, so _you and Cas_ can be together. Jesus, after five years, you’d think your faith in him would be a bit stronger.”  
“It’s not that I doubt him, it’s not that.” Dean put the ring back, fists clenched. “I just still feel like Meg really _has_ us, you know? Her magic’s still on me, it smothers me every single night. It’s Cas’ mojo and Death’s mojo, all mixed up in there in some kinda devil dance.”  
Sam flattened his lip in a sympathetic expression.  
“Come on,” Dean sighed, grabbing nothing in the end. “You can just shoot at Gabriel.”  
Sam laughed, instead picking up the apple he’d stashed last night. It was dented and bird-pecked, but he’d found a fresh one to eat at the time.  
While Dean’s back was turned, Sam ducked down to see under the cart. Yes, it was still there. Right where he’d left it. He mentally thanked Bobby for all his speedy help, as the lie they’d told Dean together was the reason they were here now, and Dean hadn’t already rushed ahead to kill Meg.  
Dean needed the sword to kill Meg, that was his plan. Without the sword, he was forced to take more practical action. So Bobby and Sam had made the decision for him. The sword had not fallen through the ice the other night.  
Tied firmly to the axle of the back wheels, was Sabbath.  
~  
“Almost time,” Bobby said, patting the cart. “Where are Castiel’s clothes?”  
“Think he’ll actually wear anything tonight, or just the cloak?”  
“Like hell I’m having him wander around here with the rest of us with no clothes on.”  
“Fair point,” Sam smiled, already rummaging through their small amount of luggage. It was all morsels of food, blankets, fire flint, the shovels, a keg of ale - aha, here were the clothes.  
Sam actually recognised this shirt, he noted. It was one of his own. Ellen had gone to fetch Castiel clothes when he’d asked for them... and she had returned with Sam’s old garments. He realised these clothes would’ve only been accessible if they’d been kept in the room with all the bits and bobs that Ellen kept for travellers who didn’t have anything of their own. Sam wasn't sure how he felt about that, as it meant they’d cleared out his room. That meant they’d thought he was gone for good.  
But he wasn’t gone, and he was going back. He’d promised Ellen, and there was no question about his returning.  
Sam set the clothes out on the wagon’s seat, then turned to watch everyone else prepare. Dean was putting his crossbow back where it should be, Gabriel and the other horses were eating grass, as they had been doing all day. According to Gabriel, it was the best grass he’d ever tasted.  
Dean sighed forcefully and edged his way to the back of the cart, eyes on Sam.  
“What’s up?” Sam asked.  
“This could be the last night I’m a wolf.”  
“Could be,” Sam said lightly.  
Dean looked up, staring at Sam. “Will be.”  
Sam pulled his lips taut and nodded gently. “Let’s hope.”  
Dean clambered up into the cage and slammed the gate behind him, Sam doing all the catches up. The blanket was back inside, so Dean had something to cover himself with while they waited for night to fall. While Sam's back was turned, Dean undressed, then passed Sam the arm protector.  
“Dean,” Sam said quietly.  
“Yeah?”  
“I know I have all night to find the thingy, and that - but if dawn comes and we’re still here... I just want you to know, I’m... really sorry. Really, really―” he took a deep breath, “ _really_ sorry.”  
Dean looked at him sadly. “I know.”  
With the arm protector in place, Sam let Castiel hop onto his arm, stroked him, then bent down to brush him onto the grass, so he wouldn’t fall when he transformed.  
“Has he ever turned while he was flying?” Sam asked Dean.  
Dean shook his head. “Always came to find me - or Chevy, if I’d run off already.”  
“Smart.”  
“Yeah.”  
“One minute, boys,” Bobby muttered, dragging another heap of blankets closer, throwing them over the top of the cage.  
“What’s that for?”  
“Keep the noise down.”  
“What noise?”  
Bobby looked back at Dean like he was stupid. “You know you turn into a wolf, right?”  
“What noi- Oh, right. Howling.” Dean swallowed. “It’s really that loud?”  
“It’s like you’re trying to blast our ears off,” Sam said. “If you’re really close it sounds a bit like you’re underwater, when you try to talk, and all you hear is your own voice like it’s not going anywhere. Makes your head feel all... full.”  
“Huh.”  
“It’s kinda nice though, wolf howls,” Sam considered. “A bit like singing.”  
Dean sighed, looking away. “Cas never heard singing yet, did he?”  
“You’ve never been into civilisation.”  
“Tomorrow we will.”  
“We’ll be busy though.”  
Dean pouted. “After we’re done. While we’re all still together, you, me, the whole family. We can go somewhere, find a choir. Get them to sing something nice.”  
“You want me to come with you for that?” Sam asked, noticing that Dean had included him.  
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
Sam pressed his lip into a curve. “You and Cas need something that’s just you and him. Singing was something he wanted with you.”  
Dean shook his head. “No. I mean - _yeah_ , but singing is for sharing, man. He wanted everyone to be th―”  
Dean never finished his sentence, because even though they couldn’t quite see the sun through what remained of the leaves above, sunset had come.  
All at once, Sam was faced with a grumpy wolf, grumbling and pacing about the cage.  
Castiel grunted and stood closer to Sam with a sigh. He was an inch shorter than Dean, and so only came up to Sam’s ear. Sam went to fetch him his clothes.  
“Trousers too, Cas.”  
Castiel smiled and tugged them on, still watching the wolf. “He seems smaller when he’s caged,” he said.  
“He hates being cooped up. So does human-Dean.”  
Castiel nodded, touching the cloth of his shirt as it wrapped around his torso. It fitted him better than it ever fitted Sam.  
“This will be the last time. One more night.”  
Sam put a hand to his head, massaging. “Cas, I didn’t find the thing yet.”  
Castiel looked at the clearing, waving back to Bobby as he lifted a hand in greeting. “I will help you.”  
“Dean tried to help, too. So did Gabe, and Bobby even looked like he was doing something at one point. Nobody has any clue what to look for.”  
“We could just try very hard not to find it,” Castiel suggested with a smile. “Lost things always seem to turn up in the la―”  
“Last place you look.”  
“Yes.”  
“So... what, just sit down and not move?”  
Castiel’s eyes shifted as he squinted. “How long do we have until we have to be in the city?”  
Bobby answered as he passed by with more wood for the fire, “About fifteen hours.”  
Sam winced. “Don’t think I can keep this up for that long. Need to sleep soon.”  
“We could sleep now,” Castiel said. “Or, all of you could sleep. I could keep watch.” He was still watching wolf-Dean wistfully.  
Sam patted Castiel’s shoulder and agreed, going to get one of the blankets to lie on. The fire was all aflame again, Bobby prodding at it with a branch.  
“All right,” sighed Sam. “Wake me up when something looks important.”  
~  
“Sam.”  
“Mhhm.”  
“Sam.”  
“Whatzzit, Cas.”  
“We only have a few hours until daybreak.”  
“Aw, man...”  
“I am sorry to wake you. But,” Castiel continued as Sam sat up, rubbing his eyes, “I don’t think you have much hope of finding anything while you’re asleep.”  
“Took you this long to figure that out, huh?”  
“No. I just thought you looked utterly exhausted.”  
Sum huffed, pulling his arms behind his back to stretch the ache out. “Haven’t slept much since I met Dean.”  
Castiel smiled slyly, then lowered his head as he looked away. “I didn’t much, either, when I first met him. But that was for entirely different reasons.”  
Sam grinned and rolled his eyes, going to look for something to eat. Castiel indicated that he should take the remains of a rabbit still on the fire.  
Sam narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Did you cook this?”  
“I think it might be slightly overdone.”  
“Uh, yeah.” He scraped it off the stick with two fingers, shaking them out as his skin singed a slight. “You’re meant to stop when it goes crispy.”  
“I like burnt food. I thought you might be the same.”  
“This isn’t burnt, this is... charcoal.”  
“Do you not want it?”  
Sam bit the inside of his lip. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”  
“If you say so.”  
Sam leaned forward to eat it, trying not to let it touch his tongue as he chewed. It fell apart in his mouth, and it tasted exactly like how a firepit smelled once everything had been watered down to put out the embers.  
“‘s delicious, Cas.”  
“For someone who makes a living out of lying, you are not very good at it.”  
“I don’t steal any more, though,” Sam said, swallowing and trying not to gag. “Once this is over I’m gonna go make an honest living somehow.”  
“That’s not what you want to do.”  
Sam paused, looking back at Castiel’s discerning blue eyes. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I want. But I don’t want to be a thief. For something I’m gifted at... it kind of sucks.”  
“I am gifted at killing people,” Castiel said. “That also... sucks.”  
“Yeah.”  
Sam managed to chew his way through the black gritty part of the rabbit and eventually found something more chewy, after having disintegrated a bone just by biting down on it.  
Bobby snored loudly and rolled over, off the blanket and onto the grass.  
“Where should we look?” Sam asked, gloomy again. “I swear I looked everywhere. What are the chances it’s just gonna leap out at me?”  
“I would imagine, quite high,” Castiel mused. “Although, I doubt it will be an easy find; I think there would be protection over it.”  
“Magical protection?”  
“Most likely.”  
“I have no magic, though. I couldn’t break through that.”  
Castiel was quiet for a long time, watching Sam eat the last of the burnt rabbit and wipe his blackened hands on his trousers.  
“Sam... in all your life, has it ever occurred to you that you might?”  
“Might what?”  
“Have magic.”  
Sam laughed, mouth crinkling at the corners. “Hah, no.”  
Castiel frowned. “Why not?”  
Sam looked around them, like the answer would present itself in the firelight. “Uh, ‘cause I’m human? Do I need another reason?”  
“You remember Ash, in our story?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“He is human.”  
“He’s a witch.”  
“Witches are human.”  
“So... what, you’re saying I’m a witch? Because, um, Cas, I think I’d know that by now. I’m twenty-two.”  
“I’m not saying that. I just think, maybe, there is something inside of you. Some... connection. To the other side. Like Pamela, or Missouri, or Andy.”  
“A psychic?”  
Castiel pressed his lips together in thought. “Perhaps not in the same capacity. I can feel something,” he said, reaching to take Sam’s hand and turning it to fit between his own, “inside you. There’s some mystical energy.”  
“For what purpose?”  
Castiel looked directly at Sam and said, clearly, “To find Death’s object and return his power to him.”  
Sam pulled his hand away, smiling. “If this is a motivational speech, you can stop now, I get it.”  
“Wh... what do you ‘get’?”  
“That it’s important, Cas. I know how monumentally important it is, all right?” Sam stood up and unclenched his fists, trying to fight off the frustration before it took hold. He held out a hand to Castiel to pull the other man to his feet. “I’m trying, okay? I have, what, a few hours now? I’ll find it before we leave.”  
“Thank you, Sam.”  
“Thank me later, when I’ve actually got the thing.” He turned away, and wandered off into the night.  
He came back a few seconds later to tap Castiel on the shoulder.  
“Yes, Sam?”  
“There’s no moon. It’s really dark.”  
Castiel smiled. “Would you like a light?”  
“Thanks.”  
Castiel picked up a stick from the fire, one end already alight, and he used a tiny burst of magic to transform it into a pitch torch. With a nod of thanks, he left Castiel by the camp again, and strode into the darkness.  
~  
After almost three hours of undisturbed searching, of rechecking all the places he had checked in the daylight, Sam huffed back to Castiel, thrusting the torch into his hand.  
“Still no luck?”  
“All that’s out here is sleeping frogs and really miserable crickets. I can’t see anything except leaves, and nothing stands out, especially in the dark.” He showed Castiel his hands, grubby from the multiple times he’d dug around in the grass.  
“I am afraid we only have an hour until dawn, maybe less.”  
Sam grimaced, punching the side of his own head gently. “What am I meant to do now? I tried _meditating_ , for God’s sake.”  
“That was sensible,” Castiel said. “A serene mind could unlock something to the magic of this place.”  
Sam shook his head roughly, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know where else to look.”  
Castiel set the torch back into the fire, which caused the flame to lash clumsily. “Where have you not looked?”  
“Above the trees, under the ground, and outside of the clearing. Dean said it would be inside.”  
Castiel nodded concurrence.  
“And the water. I stood on the rock. I walked around it, I looked at it from every goddamn angle, there’s nothing. I saw, like a... a little flash of something, but I think it was a fish.”  
“Did you go in the water?”  
A flicker of annoyance carved its way across Sam’s face. “No. It’s freaking freezing in there.”  
Castiel looked at him like he’s just said something very idiotic.  
“Oh, come on,” Sam muttered, unimpressed. “You think it’s in... there?” He looked over at the pool, seeing only a glimmer of firelight skimming its black surface. “Cra-ha-haap.”  
“I will stand by to warm you up again,” Castiel said, marching to the edge of the pool with the torch in hand once more.  
Sam followed hesitantly, suddenly feeling a lot chillier than he had before. “The things I do for you guys...” he mumbled.  
“It is not only for me and Dean,” Castiel informed him, leading Sam to the wooden dock. “It is for the good of all of mankind.”  
“How do you figure that?”  
“While Death is captured, the world is unbalanced. You don’t feel that?”  
Sam shook his head, looking down at the murky depths of the pool.  
It was like looking into eternity, just endless blackness. Only the surface rippled with the orange reflection of the torch, and it seemed like a thin veil. Beyond that shimmering curtain, was water so cold that Sam would freeze in minutes. He’d been in water that cold only last night, and it was certainly not an experience he wished to repeat.  
“I will wait here for you,” Castiel said, trying to be reassuring. “If I could do this instead of you, I would in a heartbeat. But you are the only one.”  
“I’m also the only one who’s gonna be freezing to death,” Sam grumbled, taking the corner of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He sighed, resenting the cold wash of wintry air that nipped at him.  
“You will probably not be harmed, Sam. As soon as you surface―”  
“Look, are you sure it’ll be in here? The thing I saw before... seriously, it _so_ could’ve been a fish.”  
“I am not even a little sure. But we must be thorough.”  
Sam snorted, piling his trousers on top of his shirt. He met Castiel’s eye and resolutely kept his breeches on.  
“Wish me luck, Cas.”  
“I wish that you have luck.”  
Sam’s grin came in starts, but he looked back at Castiel and chuckled. “Close enough.”  
He took a deep breath and swung his arms by his sides, whining to himself under his breath. The water loomed at him.  
What he’d seen earlier was only a glimmer of light, barely anything at all. It was near the dock, so he wouldn’t have far to swim... But for every second he was under there, he would be that much closer to death.  
Maybe that was the point.  
To get the source of Death’s power... you had to die.  
“Oh, fuck,” Sam whispered.  
Castiel put a warm hand on his bare shoulder and nodded to him. “I think, in a moment like this, Dean might say, ‘go... get ‘em, tiger’.”  
Sam steeled his jaw, took another deep breath, and dived, hands first, head down.  
...This was fine, there was nothing to worry abo―  
The cold hit Sam like a cart horse had run into him, devouring his mind and half his limbs. He was heavy and stiff, and he could feel the post-mortem rigidity engulfing his body before he was even dead.  
He badly needed a breath, he needed to _breathe_ , but any breath meant instant death while he was under the water.  
It was not as cold as the ice lake he’d been in last night, though. He could at least open his eyes, but saw only the void.  
He turned, face bathed in the shallow, wobbly light of the flame Castiel held above the water. He looked like a guiding angel. Come to me, come to safety.  
 _No._  
Sam turned back to the floor of the pool, barely making anything out, it was so dark. There were plants, thick tangly roots like winding fingers, swaying in the movement of the water.  
Rocks, fish, shadows. All as scary as a nightmare, everything with eyes and hands, moving and grabbing. Sam couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He dared not leave the wavering circle of the firelight; who knew where the darkness would take him?  
He needed air. He needed warmth. His mind was slipping away.  
He could scarcely move his hands now, and he couldn’t even feel his fingers.  
Before he knew it, sleep was taking him, and it was the most comfortable sleep Sam had ever been welcomed by.  
He was beside the fireplace at the Roadhouse, a laughing, singing, full house behind him. Jo was calling him over - there was Dean, there was Castiel. His whole family, warm and loving.  
Jo was leaning over the side of the bar, trying to signal Ellen for a drink. Sam laughed and leaned too, stomach pressed to the bartop. But as he leaned, he found that Ellen was no longer behind the bar. In her place was a square fishpond. It was turquoise and azure, with several small orange fish making their way around the bottom. Sam chuckled happily, and reached down a hand to touch one. It pecked at his fingers, and as it swam down, Sam followed its path with his hand. His sleeve was getting soaked, but he didn’t mind. The fish was beautiful.  
Sam’s fingers touched the bottom of the square basin, smoothing along slick tile. One finger pressed on a little metal loop, and the tinkling sound it made as it crossed between tiles was like a bell in his mind, gentle and small. Sam’s thumb rounded the tiny halo, thinking it was maybe a handle to somewhere; maybe he could pull it and the bottom of the fishpond would open like a door.  
Sam tugged at it, and was surprised to find it lifted with his hand, almost weightless. He stood up, about to show Jo what he’d found, but instead found himself...  
In a pool.  
Freezing cold.  
Dying.  
Eyes wide, he kicked frantically, his feet connecting with plant and rock, bruising and cutting his skin. He climbed desperately to the surface, determined not to fall prey to the false warmth again. He had to finish this.  
He only just made the break of the water before he wished he was back under.  
With only half a lungful of air in his lungs, he thrashed and tried to swim away, calling out in shock.  
On the dock, instead of Castiel with the torch, was a wrath of pale ghosts, moaning silently, mouths open - hands reached out for Sam, snatching at his shoulders emptily. They couldn’t touch him, but he felt their need to do so. It seemed like they were everywhere; the whole pool was lit by a silver glow, like the glade had been painted with moonlight.  
“Sam!” came a voice, and it was Castiel, hanging back on the pier, torch wobbling. “Sam!”  
“C-Ca... s―”  
“Sam, hold on!”  
Castiel’s torch broke through the middle of a ghost, the orange flame doing nothing to distract her as she snarled in silence.  
The night was as quiet as it had been before Sam had dived, only now there was blood pounding in his ears, and his own rasping, stubborn breaths ripping from his mouth. The water lapped at him, and he realised then that one hand was not open, but was closed in a fist. He didn’t even have to look at it to know that he was holding a ring.  
“Ca-Ca-s!”  
“Sam, I’m coming!” Castiel set the torch on the dock. Sam couldn’t see him through the half-corporeal silver of swarming people, threefold deep, as they crawled along the edge of the jetty. They didn’t fall out over the water, they only crouched and kneeled, hands reaching.  
Their faces were angry, desperate, crying with tears. This was not the unresponsive kind of spirit that Dean had described. These beings were furious.  
Castiel was trying to get to Sam, clawing through the spirits - Sam already knew it was hopeless the second Castiel had started.  
“Let ussss gooo,” Castiel moaned, in the voice of a much older man. “Taaake us into deaaath―”  
“Get the hell out of him!” Bobby roared, hands finding Castiel’s shoulders and wrenching Castiel to his freedom. He only had a second to say, “Wha―!” before he too was possessed by a silver wraith, turning his body to the water and stumbling forward with the rest of the ghosts.  
“Bobby! SAM!” Castiel bellowed, unable to stop anything. He couldn’t get into the water to reach Sam without passing a ghost, as they surrounded the entire pool - on the sand, on the bank, on top of the big rock.  
“He- help,” Sam whispered, head sinking under the water as his limbs were too thick and cold to keep him afloat.  
“Sam!” Castiel cried, unable to pull Bobby out of the ghost because he was too heavy. “Sam, you _did_ something, you made them react! Change it, put it back, you need to save yourself! I can’t get to you!”  
Sam only registered half the words, his ears were filled with icy water that bit at his brain.  
“Hhn,” he murmured, water stinging his eyes.  
“SAAAM!”  
Sam felt a kick. He lurched back awake, and before he could do anything, his arm was thrust from the water and the ring was hurled onto the dock. It soared through the face of a long-haired woman, hitting the wood and bouncing once, twice, thrice. The sound was that of the bell that he had heard moments before.  
At once, the ghosts were calm, expressions neutral - bored, almost. They casually stood up and walked away, taking each other’s hands or elbows, smiling and talking and skipping.  
“Cas―”  
“Sam, take my hand,” Castiel insisted, glancing warily at Bobby, who walked away with the ghosts, laughing in a woman’s voice.  
Sam passed out as soon as his hand touched Castiel’s, but only a second later, he hit the dock, awake again. His body was as solid as a rock, but thawing as Castiel’s magic coursed through him.  
“You’re okay, Sam. You’re safe.”  
“C-c...”  
“Shh.” Castiel stroked Sam’s face, poking his lips with a fingertip, making the blood return to them. Sam felt his fingers again, and could locate his legs without having to think about it.  
“H-holy cr-crap Ca-s, what th-the h-ell―”  
“I believe you found what we were looking for.”  
“N-no shit-t.”  
Castiel smiled, then looked swiftly to Bobby. He was hand-in-hand with a sturdy-looking man, speaking worriedly. It was not his voice coming from his mouth, but that of a young woman.  
“That’s what h-happened to Dean, wasn’t - wasn’t it?” Sam asked, recalling the moment he’d been told about, when Dean was possessed by a small, dancing girl.  
“Yes. We should rescue Bobby, I don’t think he would be happy if that woman’s partner decided to kiss her.”  
Sam huffed a laugh and rocked onto his knees, wincing. He felt odd, like he had been removed from himself and then stitched back in.  
“Put your clothes on first,” Castiel said, drying Sam’s breeches with a quick magical wave. “We cannot have you getting sick on a rescue mission.”  
Sam grappled with the material, trying to dress himself as fast as possible. He nodded to Castiel and together they ran to Bobby, neither needing to ask what to do. Castiel made to jump at Bobby while Sam went behind him to help.  
With a shout, all three of them fell onto the grass, Bobby grunting loudly as Castiel collapsed over his side, Sam making the third. He rolled off quickly, hearing both other men gasping with exertion. Castiel stood up and held out both hands for Bobby to take.  
Bobby heaved himself up without help, brushing his clothes down sharply. He said nothing, and his eyes were somewhat glazed over.  
“Bobby, you all right?”  
“Fine, kid,” Bobby said. He did not look fine.  
Sam looked at the ghost Bobby had just been shoved out of. She was a little older than Sam, still in conversation with the man she was with. The man looked a lot like an older Dean, stockier and more grizzled.  
“Bobby,” Sam breathed. “Bobby, who is that?”  
Bobby didn’t need to ask why Sam had asked. “Mary and John Winchester.”  
Sam stared.  
They were his parents. These ghosts were Sam and Dean’s parents.  
“These ghosts,” Castiel began, startled as he looked around them, “they must all be from the―”  
“Reaper Massacres,” Sam finished. “Oh my God. That’s... that’s my mom. I have a father. Holy...”  
Castiel took Sam’s hand and squeezed it, gaze resting on Sam’s face. “You know... you could talk to them.”  
Sam turned to stare at Castiel now. “What?”  
“When you had Death’s object in your hand―”  
“It’s a ring,” Sam interrupted, running back to the dock and scouring the ground until he found it, glinting in the grass. They could see now, since the ghosts' arrival had brought light bright enough that it seemed as if the moon was shining directly on Limn'mere. “Death’s object is a ring.” He picked it up with his sleeve, not touching the silver metal. He brought it back to Castiel and Bobby, presenting it to them.  
“When you had it in your hand, they could see you. Now,” Castiel said, gesturing at the spirits, “they are indifferent to us.”  
“The horses don’t mind them,” Sam noticed, seeing Gabriel standing calmly and just looking at them all.  
“They mean us no harm.”  
“Tell that to the grabbing ‘n scratching they were doing,” Bobby retorted. “I was in her head, she is one vengeful-as-hell spirit.”  
“What... what does she want?” Sam asked, looking at her. She was beautiful. Pale like the other ghosts, with long, bright hair, full lips and a round face. Her jaw was like Sam’s. He could see his own self in her, easily. The way she moved her hands had a hint of Sam’s movement, as well.  
“Think about it,” Bobby said. He was pained at seeing his old friends after so long, and in such a state. “They died twenty-two years ago. If you’d been kept in one place, dead, for twenty-two years, what would you want?”  
“I’d want to move on,” Sam said. “They want to leave?”  
Bobby nodded, once.  
Castiel took a breath to speak. “Sam? Do you want to talk to them?”  
Sam looked at the ring that was clutched in his sleeve. “Wouldn’t they all start screaming at me like before? And we couldn’t even hear them―”  
“If I stood inside one of them,” Castiel suggested, “and you hold the ring. They could see you, and I could be their voice.”  
Sam looked back at Castiel, some bubbling fear in his stomach. “Will they know me?”  
Bobby nodded. “They know who you are, Sam. They know what you can do.”  
“Can... do?”  
Castiel’s hand squeezed Sam’s again. “You are capable of so much. The energy in you... it’s beyond being Death’s ring-bearer, Sam. You have a purpose.”  
“Which is what?”  
Castiel smiled, a mysterious thing that curved his lips sideways. “I cannot tell you that, Sam. You have a destiny.”  
“With... Dean?”  
Castiel’s smile widened. “I cannot tell you that either.”  
“Do you know?”  
“No.”  
Sam licked his lips and closed his fist on the shirt around the ring. “All- all right, I’ll talk to them.”  
“Who would you like to speak to?”  
Sam looked to his parents. “My mom.”  
Castiel nodded and dropped Sam’s hand, going to stand beside Mary Winchester. “This could be frightening for all of us, the living and the dead.”  
Sam gave a nod. “I’m going to touch the ring now.”  
“Okay.” Castiel took a breath and closed his eyes, then stepped inside Mary. His hands locked to her hands, fingers extending past hers. Her breast protruded from his chest, her long hair trickling out through his back.  
Sam let his sleeve slip down, and allowed the ring to fall into his palm.  
At once, the swarms of ghosts across the enclosure all rushed at him, and Sam yelped, running closer to Castiel for fear of being separated.  
Bobby was obscured from sight as pale spirits ran through him, one after another briefly catching inside his body, then knocked through by the next ghost to smash into the man's back.  
“Sammy,” Mary said, and Sam’s attention diverted to Castiel in front of him.  
“M-Mom?”  
Mary was already tearing up, a joyous smile brightening her face. She reached Castiel’s hand to Sam’s face and caressed his cheek, sobbing. All around the two of them, ghosts moaned silently, hands raking at Sam’s sides, but none of them entered his body.  
“Oh, Sammy, you’ve grown so much, I can’t believe―”  
“Mom, I found my brother, I found Dean,” Sam said, not recognising his emotions.  
Mary chuckled, Castiel’s eyes shining with tears. “How... how is he?”  
Sam put a hand on his mouth, laughing through a wild surge of feeling. “He’s good, he’s great - well, no, he’s - hehe - he’s cursed - but, we’re gonna, we’re gonna break that, today! He’s gonna be back to normal, with his, his, his... mate. His mate.”  
Mary blinked, lips wobbling. “Mate? He’s married?”  
Sam gasped a little. “No, he’s―”  
“He’s living in sin?”  
Sam laughed out loud. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. Oh my God, I can’t believe you still care about that stuff. You’re - Mom, you’re dead, you’re gone...” Sam’s face fell, and he breathed hard, shaking. “Mom, this is the only time I’ll ever see you.”  
“I know, honey.” Mary touched Sam’s lips, looking at him so sadly. Sam had seen that expression on Castiel’s face often, and that was when he looked at Dean. Loss, love, longing.  
“Ellen looked after me, Mom.” Sam sighed. “All my life. She took real good care of me.”  
Mary’s eyes shone with pride for her friend, head tilting. Still ghosts moved on all sides, crowding them in. Sam could see John just over Mary's shoulder, reaching and clawing mindlessly like the rest of them.  
“Tell her thank you from me,” Mary whispered. “She raised you just right.”  
“I―” Sam considered telling her about his worst decision: that he’d become a thief. But that was over now. It wasn’t important. “I will.”   
Then he frowned. “Mom, is this... is this goodbye?”  
Mary tilted her head further, long hair sweeping down from Castiel’s ear, falling through his shoulder and inside his body. “We’ll see each other again. When we can all pass on, all of us. Sam, you and I will be together after death. But you have a long life ahead of you, long and beautiful.”  
Sam heaved a heavy breath, fingers finding Castiel’s shirt and tugging it like it was Mary’s. “But you’re not leaving now? We don’t have to leave for the city for a while.”  
Mary shook her head. “Talking like this isn’t safe. The living shouldn’t cross with the dead. The man... this man? The one I speak through―”  
“That’s Dean’s mate. Castiel. He’s a... he’s a fallen angel.”  
Mary was shocked, but her expression changed, her eyes becoming unfocused. Perhaps Castiel was speaking to her from the inside, explaining and soothing.  
“He’s a man,” Mary stated.  
“Yeah.” Sam smiled. “A really good man. The best kind, really. Dean loves him.”  
Mary looked confused, but she said nothing else on the matter.  
“Mom,” Sam began again, wanting to ask a question.  
“Yes, Sammy?” Mary’s voice broke as she said his name, somewhere between laughing and crying.  
“All of these souls... why are they here? Why are they―” he looked at the ring in his hand, “―why are they attached to the ring?”  
Mary’s eyes darkened, and she lowered her head, like she was trying to glare at someone in the distance. “Meg Masters.”  
“She ordered witches to kill you.”  
Mary nodded. “Our souls... all of our combined existence... she used us to bind Death. _The_ Death. The Grim Reaper.”  
“Oh my God,” Sam breathed. “I... I know, she killed all of you. She killed you all, just so she could have Death at her beck and call. And - Mom, she used Death, to get angels from Heaven. So she had more magic. All of these souls... just so she could...” Sam shook his head in dismay. “She’s really powerful, but we're going to bring her down today. We’re going to stop her.”  
“Avenge our deaths?”  
Sam hesitated, then nodded. “When we break the curse... we’ll find a way to get you justice. Death will take back what she took from him, and it’ll all be okay.”  
“Meg has to die.”  
Sam gawped for a second, then shook his head.  
“We cannot be free while she still lives, Sam.” Mary looked pained to say it, and Sam gulped.  
She was asking him to kill someone. It went against everything they’d been trying to stop. Could he trust her? Just because she was his mother, did that equate trust?  
But there were so many souls, and they were all tortured in remaining here. Sam could see it was truth. It didn’t matter what his mind said, his heart was tied with these souls, tied with his family. Meg needed to die.  
Murder?  
No. Justice.  
Sam nodded, very slowly. Would he regret this?  
Mary ran her hand through Sam’s hair, and Sam sighed. It felt so familiar, the same way Ellen used to when he was younger. Your hair’s too long, she would say. He liked it like that.  
“My son, Sammy Winchester,” Mary said softly, smile playing on her lips again. “Grew up mighty handsome, just like his daddy.”  
Sam glanced to the writhing John, the man’s eyes wild and desperate as he continued to grapple for Sam. None of the ghosts could get any closer, no matter how much they seemed to want to.  
“Dean looks a bit like him,” Sam said. “Maybe a touch more... baby-faced.”  
Mary crooned, a hand on her own cheek. “Tell him I love him, won’t you?”  
Sam nodded earnestly, grinning with an open mouth. “He’s gonna be so pissed that he never saw you.”  
Mary sighed sadly, eyes falling to the ring that Sam still hung on to. She lifted a hand and brushed her fingertips over it, and Sam only felt Castiel’s fingers, but it was every bit a mother’s touch.  
Bobby had made it through the crowd, locked inside another ghost. The ghosts around Mary and Sam shifted, like they were conversing and deciding something. All of a sudden, John Winchester was inside Bobby, and Bobby looked at Sam the same way he always did: as a father.  
“Hello, son.”  
“Dad,” Sam said.  
“What’s this about Dean marrying a man?”  
Sam burst out laughing, eyes closing for a moment. He re-opened them to see John’s face a few inches higher than Bobby’s, glowing silver hair sticking out the top of Bobby’s grey. The expression the both of them wore was concerned, but thoroughly pleased, just because Sam was there, alive, in front of them.  
“I’ll tell Dean that’s what you’re most interested about,” Sam grinned. “He missed you, all his life. Both of you. It’s killing him that you had to leave him.”  
Mary looked up at Sam dolefully, lips pressed together. “We never would have left if we didn’t have to.”  
“I know,” Sam said, looking back to his father. “Tell me something to tell him. A message.”  
John and Mary looked at each other, and it was nothing like how Bobby and Castiel looked at each other.  
“Tell him we’re proud of him,” Mary said, softly. She nodded after she spoke. “If he’s anything like you, Sammy, we’re proud of him.”  
“Tell him he better be careful what he does with that... _husband_ of his―”  
“Seriously, Dad,” Sam said, frowning at Bobby. “He’s happy. He loves Cas. I’ve been with them both a week, and I can see how much they love each other, and I haven’t even seen them together. You...” Sam’s lip twitched, then he finished, “you should be proud of him, too.”  
John was startled, having his six-month old son disagree with him, but after a moment of silence, he nodded, respectfully. “Sam... I’m proud of _you_ , son. Why I’m telling you all this soppy nonsense is beyond me―”  
“Because you’re dead. You’re excused.”  
“―but I am. Sam, you grew up good. You’re smart, I can tell from here. And you’re way too tall―” he looked quickly to Mary, “―are you sure he’s my son?”  
Mary laughed, then looked at Sam and nodded warmly. “You’re our little baby Winchester, Sammy.”  
Sam’s lip wobbled, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to stop it. He huffed out a grin, then looked at each of his parents.  
“Thank you,” he said. “We’re going to do everything we can to help you, now.”  
John put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing.  
Mary looked to John, then back to Sam, smiling. “We love you, Sammy. Don’t forget that. Avenge our spirits, put everything right.”  
Sam nodded.  
Mary wrapped her hand around Sam’s, the one holding the ring. With the other hand, she put a kiss on her fingers, then set the hand to Sam’s cheek.  
“Stay strong, Sammy,” John said.  
Mary sighed. “Goodbye, Sam.” She closed her hand around Sam’s fist, and like a candle being blown out, the ghosts vanished with a whooshing noise. In a split second, they had all rushed toward the ring, which swirled and gulped them inside it.  
Sam panted, stunned. It was pitch black again, but he could just about see the edges of things by the torchlight that still burned where it had been discarded on the dock. He lifted the ring to look at it, finding the centre gem was now swirling with glowing blue-silver, the colour of the souls. The swirls were moving, changing constantly inside the rectangular blue stone that contained them.  
“Oh―” Castiel said, before collapsing.  
Bobby grunted and fell over backwards, landing on his backside and grunting again.  
Sam kneeled between the two of them, still breathing hard. “You guys okay?”  
“Been better,” Bobby said, rubbing at his heart. “Feel like I just got eaten by a chipmunk.”  
Castiel blinked, patting his chest with a fist. “While such a sensation sounds peculiar to the ear... yes, that image seems accurate. I feel much like that as well.”  
Sam sat back on his heels, face flickering into a breathless grin. “I just met my parents.”  
“Yes,” Castiel said, running a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted. “We noticed.”  
Sam laughed, squeezing the ring. He opened his hand and looked at it again. It was such a small thing, but he could feel the buzz of power running through his hand. Maybe angel Grace vials were like that too.  
“Here,” Castiel said, leaning forward and drawing a line in the air with a finger. From his fingertip came a thin chain, that Sam plucked from the air, letting it coil on his palm. He threaded it through the sturdy silver band, then pulled it over his head and watched the ring dangle on his chest.  
“We must return it to Death as soon as possible, now,” Castiel said. “It’s almost dawn. We will have to enter the city before the morning rush subsides so we can hide in the crowd.”  
Sam nodded. He'd been about to suggest the exact same thing himself.  
Castiel raised his hand again and created a orb of light, like the others he’d made, but this one was much smaller, only half the size of his hand.  
“My power must be conserved,” he said by way of explanation. “In the years I’ve been in a vessel, the power I’ve used has outlasted the other angels’ by maybe four or five years. But I do think I could be coming to the end of it now.”  
Sam put a hand on Castiel’s knee. “Don’t lose it, all right? Not until we have you and Dean back.”  
Castiel swallowed and nodded agreement. They all three stood up together, brushed themselves down, and Castiel went to get the torch from the jetty.  
“It seems there is a burn in the wood here,” Castiel said sadly. “I think Dean might be irked by that.”  
“Nah,” Sam grinned, taking Castiel by the shoulder as they all walked back to the campfire, and the horses - all of whom were watching intently. “He’d just be happy there’s some fixing to do, something he can do without needing a sword.”  
“Of course.”  
They packed up their things, put out the fire properly, and tried to quiet the howling Dean, who had only started making a racket once they'd gotten close to the cart. He hadn’t seemed disturbed by the swarms of ghosts at all.  
Sam leaned on the cage, reaching a hand through the bars to pet Dean’s head. “I just met our parents,” he whispered to him, smiling. “Mary and John. You look like John, did you know that? They gave me messages for you. I’ll tell you later, when you’re human, okay?”  
The wolf grumbled lightly, and flopped onto the blanket, which glistened with saliva where he’d been chewing it.  
“Hey, you ready to go, Cas?”  
Castiel nodded, dragging the floating light with him as he came forward. Bobby took his seat first, in the middle this time. Sam smiled as he saw the slightly disappointed look Castiel shot him. For whatever reason, Castiel really liked sitting next to Sam.  
This time, when Bobby cracked the reins, it was Chevy and Gabriel who pulled the cart. Crowley was tied on a lead at the back, and the idea was that he’d be pulled along by the faster horses. He was perfectly capable of speed, he was just... unwilling.  
It was still dark when they all left Limn’mere, but after only ten or twenty minutes of following Chevy’s guidance toward the city, Sam could see a glow through the trees, and the stars were just that tiny bit dimmer against the sky. Having grown accustomed to noticing the sunsets and sunrises over the past week, he could determine that they had about half an hour until Dean and Castiel changed between animal and human.  
“When we get into the city,” Bobby said, speaking quietly in the midst of the birdsong that had started up around them, “Castiel, you keep your head down. Sam, you go hide. You remember the plan?”  
Castiel looked quickly between Bobby and Sam, startled. “We have a plan?”  
Sam and Bobby looked back, smirking.  
“‘course,” Sam said. “Dean hasn’t got a clue.”  
“Well neither do I,” Castiel said, indignant. “May I be informed?”  
Sam glanced to Bobby, and they both shrugged.  
“Make it a surprise,” Sam said with a grin.  
Castiel glared.  
~  
Bobby dropped Sam off at the side of the citadel, already knowing where the gap in the wall was; Dean had never had a chance to fill it in. Sam saluted his farewell to the others, then slipped inside.  
“Where is he going?” Castiel asked, watching Sam disappear in through the wall.  
“Hide out for a couple of hours, then sneak inside the church.”  
“Why?”  
“Everythin’ goes to plan? You’ll see.”  
Castiel was dissatisfied with this, but stayed silent, not uttering a word of complaint as they circled around the border of the city. The cart came to meet with the path again, along with the morning hustle of tradesmen and monks.  
Castiel pulled his hood over his head, keeping his hand on the throat of it.  
They passed the drawbridge without incident, but Castiel dared not take a look around. He wanted to know if everything was the same as they’d left it, more than five years ago, but he could hear the voices of Guardsmen, voices he recognised. He could not put faces to the voices, but they were all hard and cruel, allies of Raphael’s.  
Dean was rattling the sides of the cage, warbling unhappy notes. Castiel turned to shush him, reaching a hand between the bars. Dean snapped at him, irritable.  
“Quiet him,” Bobby said, hushed, eyes wide as he glanced to Castiel. “He’s drawin’ attention to us.”  
Castiel tried to catch Dean’s eye, but the wolf was pacing, tail sweeping against each side of the cage as he passed. Castiel reached out a hand and tried to make him turn around with magic―  
“What have we here? Father Singer? I do believe that’s you.”  
“Virgil,” Bobby said, tone as sunken as a mudpit.  
Virgil eyed the cloaked Castiel, and before he knew it, Castiel’s hood was pulled down, and he was going to be recognised, he was―  
Dean was barking, growling like he was personally wronged by Virgil’s hand on Castiel’s hood. Virgil’s attention was immediately diverted to the creature in the cage, drawing his sword and prodding between the bars.  
“A wolf?”  
Dean thundered a snarl, a paw lashing at the metal. Virgil went back to Castiel and Bobby, Castiel already having pulled the hood back over his head, cloak hooked over his chin.  
“A - a gift, for her Grace, the High Priestess,” Bobby said. “Heard she likes wolf pelts, thought I’d take it upon myself to offer her somethin’.”  
Virgil chuckled, swinging his sword. It caught the light of the early morning, dawn fast approaching. They only had minutes. “I never had the pleasure of killing a wolf before.” He went and raised the sword to the cage again, ready to stab Dean.  
Castiel looked to Bobby desperately, begging him to save them.  
“That - heh, that’s exactly what her Grace said, would you believe it,” Bobby said, with fake cheer. Virgil had been a second away from plunging his sword into Dean’s throat as he pawed at the blade in front of him.  
Virgil was already thinking twice about stabbing, but Bobby continued: “I’m sure she’ll understand, she’s a very forgiving kind’a woman, wouldn’t you say?”  
Virgil’s sword withdrew with a metallic whistle. Dean grumbled, teeth clacking.  
“Smart move, kiddo,” Bobby said, nodding to Virgil.  
“Move on,” Virgil commanded. With a smirk, he added, “Enjoy your... gifting.”  
Bobby nodded again, and Gabriel started trotting before Bobby had even twitched the rein. Chevy kept pace, and Castiel could hear Virgil slapping Crowley on the rear as they passed. The donkey brayed annoyedly. When they were out of Vigril’s sight, they moved free of the street, and Bobby turned the wagon into an alleyway.  
“We gotta get you under shelter, and fast,” Bobby muttered to Castiel.  
Gabriel started to run, as did Chevy. Crowley hawed and was forced to follow. They twisted down tiny streets, narrow and wide, some cleaner than others. People moved out of their way, bakers and farmers mostly.  
“In here, in here,” Bobby called to Gabriel, and they rushed into an abandoned open-sided stable. It was dark in here, and Castiel didn’t think twice before lifting another floating sphere of light.  
“No, no, put that out!” Bobby hissed, and it fizzled in the air, leaving a smoky wisp.  
“What is this place?” Castiel asked, knowing it was like a horse stable, but it had none of the partitions or amenities of that kind of enclosure.  
“This is the place Raphael and Virgil took me, that night. Where they... tortured me.”  
Castiel eyed Bobby carefully, seeing the shame in his face. He set a hand on Bobby’s, looking him in the eye.  
“Nobody blames you. Don’t blame yourself.”  
Bobby paused, then shakily nodded his head. Castiel sighed, knowing he was still unconvinced.  
“Now, quickly, quickly,” Bobby said, rushing Castiel off the cart. “Find Dean some clothes.”  
Castiel found the ones Dean always wore, and slipped them between the bars of the cage. He reached a hand in after, to run through the fur on Dean’s neck.  
“Today is the day, Dean. If I don’t see you today... I never will.”  
Bobby slapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Keep holdin’ on, boy.”  
Dean whined and looked up at Castiel with his dark, watery eyes. Castiel leant his head on the bars and looked back, feeling the lines of worry on his own face.  
Dean whined.  
“Almost time.” Castiel withdrew his hand and started pulling his clothes off, wandering to the side of the cart that wasn’t open to the street. There was nobody around here, but he knew he shouldn’t be seen. Since his escape, he was sure that every person in this city would know of his face, and his deeds. Dean as well. And Sam. There was a death sentence on each and every one of their heads. Only Bobby was safe - but then again, he was a deserter. He’d left the city in the middle of a battle. He was not safe either, not really.  
Once naked, Castiel sighed and looked back at the wolf. Dean came forward to the edge of the cart, sticking his nose through the bars. Castiel smiled and put his hand on his whiskered cheek, and Dean licked him.  
Castiel sobbed and pressed his lips to Dean’s face, frowning deeply. “Goodbye, Dean.”  
Castiel only had a second of consciousness in which to withdraw, so his beak didn’t stab into Dean’s face as it grew; wings unfurled, talons mutated from his feet. He felt it happening, like every other time. It hurt.  
“Good mornin’,” Bobby muttered to Dean as his fingers clung to the cage, looking down at the squawking bird that hopped about in the dirt. Castiel took off with a puff of dust behind him, and landed on the blankets on the top of the cage. Dean’s eyes followed him up, sighing.  
“It ain’t a good morning until I see Cas’ face.”  
“Well, sure,” Bobby agreed, unlatching all the buckles on the cage. “But you’re gonna, today.”  
“Sam found the thingy?”  
“Yep. A ring, purty little shiny thing. Bottom o’ the lake.”  
Dean paused before pulling his shirt over his head, thinking. “So... Sam just gives that back to Death and this will all be over?”  
Bobby patted Gabriel on the rump as he sent him off to do his own thing. “You really ain’t payin’ attention, are you?”  
Dean snorted and yanked his clothes on clumsily. He took the leather arm protector when Bobby handed it to him, and tied it on.  
“Sam’s gotta give that thing to Death, and Death’s gotta work some mojo, at the same time as you ‘n Cas are both human. Day without a night, night without a day.”  
“Which is impossible,” Dean added, hopping out into the open air, slamming the cage behind him. “It’s like a line of coincidences, all of which―”  
“ _Some_ of which _seem_ idiotic and insane, yeah. But after what we saw last night, havin’ half that prophecy come true―”  
“What happened last night?”  
“Your ghosts at your Limmy place. Everywhere, really friggin’ creepy. We saw...” Bobby swallowed and turned away, shaking his head.  
“Saw what?”  
“Nothin’. Well, no. It was somethin’. Ask Sam.”  
Dean glanced around, seeing only the hawk, hobbling around on top of the cage, and the horses, who were standing still, resting.  
“Where _is_ Sam?”  
“Errand. Should send a message back in a while.”  
“What kind of err―”  
“Patience, boy.”  
Dean rolled his eyes and went to lean against the cage. “How long are we gonna wait he―”  
“Until church starts. About nine. Couple of hours.”  
Dean tensed his lip and nodded, then sighed and tapped his fingers on his hip. “We got any food?”  
~  
More than an hour later, Missouri came by.  
“Bobby,” she said, arms out to her sides as she set eyes on the man.  
“Holy hell, Missouri,” Bobby muttered, letting her wrap him in a hug. “Found us all right then.”  
“Of course I did,” she said, already turning to Dean and cocooning him in a very clothy embrace. She was draped in shawls, all woollen and soft, smelling like spices and beautiful foods.  
“How are you, Dean?” she whispered.  
“You already know, right?” Dean said back, flicking her a half-smile.  
“I do, honey.” She swiped a hand down his face, crinkling his stubble. “Today’s the day. Everything’s going to be fine.”  
Dean flattened his lip and downed his head, looking at Missouri’s hands. “Means a lot. Y’know. To hear you say that.” He licked his lips. “Bein’ psychic and all.”  
Missouri smiled sadly, shaking her head. “I may read people and feel certain energies, but I can’t pull facts outta thin air.”  
“Then... how can you know?”  
“I know as well as anyone else here how this is gonna turn out. But you know what I have?”  
Dean shook his head.  
“A good feelin’. Good vibes, honey.” She looked so pleased to say it. “Everything is going to be okay.”  
Dean took in a breath and nodded. “Thanks.”  
Missouri patted his cheek again and then turned away. “I have a message from Sammy,” she said. “Sweet kid, little Sammy.”  
“Sweet enough to lick,” Gabriel said, trotting forward. “What’s the message?”  
Missouri scratched Gabriel between the ears as she spoke: “That Death is gonna be in church today. When you need him, that’s where he’ll be.”  
“Convenient, right?” Dean grinned, pointing at Bobby then Missouri. “That everything goes down in the church?”  
Missouri shot him a _look_. “It’s like that because that’s what’s meant to happen.”  
“ _Meant_ to―”  
“Everything is in the church because there’s no point everything being scattered. If there’s a showdown, Sammy better be there for it. And if he’s off runnin’ around looking for Death to hand him a ring? That don’t make a lick o’ sense.”  
Dean squinted. “So... you arranged this? So Death is there?”  
“What else am I for, huh?”  
“I thought you cooked.”  
Missouri bumped a lip at him, hiding a smile. “Cooking is the least of my abilities, honey.”  
“You can control Death?”  
Missouri laughed out loud. “Oh, sweetheart, no. Friendship, favours, suggestions. That’s not control.”  
Dean nodded and shook his head all at once, then leaned back against the cart again. “How long now?”  
“Boy, you are one impatient soul,” she sniped, then her gaze softened when she saw Castiel hop down onto his arm. “Maybe you have your reasons.” She wandered over to them, and reached a hand out to pet Castiel. Castiel didn’t hesitate to lean into her touch, trusting her instantly.  
“Cute thing, ain’t he?”  
“Cuter when he’s human,” Dean muttered. “But... yeah. I’ll miss the wings and the stupid fluttering. And the annoying screechy noise.”  
“That’s him saying ‘I love you’, honey.”  
Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I know.”  
Missouri looked up into Dean’s face, searching. Dean felt scrutinised, and avoided meeting her eyes.  
“Sweetheart,” Missouri said to him. “Dean, you have to say it. Out loud.”  
Dean licked his lips and turned his face away. “He knows it, I don’t have t- Look, it’s none of your business, I was going to anywa- Just shut up about it, okay?” He thrust the bird into Missouri’s arms, and she clutched him like he was an uncomfortable chicken, legs hanging freely.  
Dean stalked off, a hand running through his hair.  
“You never know, honey,” Missouri called after him. “It might be your last chance.”  
~  
Sam was all set. Well, technically.  
He had the robe - and an unconscious monk, but that was unimportant. He pulled the robe over his head, hoping nobody would notice that it dangled a few inches above his ankle. Glancing around, he lifted the hood over his head.  
It only took a minute to find the crowd: the rich and the mighty were all headed to Sunday service, and that included the monks. They stood out in their white robes, a more subdued plainness than the bright dress of the Priestess, but they were shining nonetheless. Sam fell in step behind a group of them, who were chanting as they swung a burning plate, incense drifting out behind them. His hair would probably smell of smoke for hours.  
He kept his hands folded in front of himself, trying to adopt a similar walk to the others. They were all nearly a foot shorter than him, so he had to hunch. His back was aching by the time the church was in sight.  
The sound of singing choirs of monks reached his ears before they even entered the walkway. Even having been in the city before, Sam had never ventured to this part of town, not while everyone was around. The monks never had anything for him to steal, and the rich were always far too alert at this time of day. A society full of morning people. Sam was unsurprised that Dean had never fit in.  
The singing intensified as they breached the open doors, walking through in two lines of eight either side of the aisle. The song was truly beautiful, and Sam did mourn for the fact that Castiel had never heard it.  
Many things must have changed between Castiel’s time and now: the singing came from a massive group of monks, all dressed in their white robes. The Priestess must have gained more followers, more people under her thumb, willing to do whatever she wanted. If she wanted singing before the service instead of during, that’s what happened.  
Rufus was at the front of the church, welcoming newcomers as he watched them enter. Sam only recognised him from the descriptions Dean and Castiel had given: tall, dark-skinned with high cheekbones - his eyes were big and fierce, but there was some friendly warmth behind him, a fatherly quality.  
Sam tried not to move his head too much as he looked around. This place was crowded, so he couldn’t make out a lot of the faces as they were turned away towards the front of the church. He needed to find Death: a pale man, sunken eyes, bony features, and dressed in black.  
Sam touched the lump under his robe, where the ring on a chain dangled against his chest. He could feel the thrum of its power under his fingers, even through the cloth. Surely Death could feel it too, from wherever he was. He would seek Sam out.  
But now, Sam had to do what Bobby and he had decided. As the crowd thickened, Sam ducked, letting the hood slip down. There were so many people, he was safe enough not to be recognised. Unless something went wrong. Then... well, he was screwed.  
~  
“―Day without a night.”  
“Bobby, it makes _no_ sense.” Dean paced, free hand waving around at any time it wasn’t stroking Castiel’s feathers. “I mean, look at that―”  
He pointed to the sky, where a cloud brushed past and revealed the winter sun, as cool and stern as ever. “It’s day, Bobby. Night ain’t until the day is over. Believe me, I’ve known a thousand-and-one of these goddamn things. More than that, even.” He stared at the bird on his arm, who looked back at him silently. “One more just seems to make all the difference.”  
“Just be patient, Dean,” Bobby insisted, for the fiftieth time. “The time will come, I know it.”  
“Really.” Dean glared at him, sighing. “How much do you really know? It ain’t science, it ain’t magic. It’s prophecy, and not even one with a reliable source.”  
“I _knew_ it,” Bobby spat. “I knew you’d bring that up.”  
“What did you expect from me, Bobby? You’re just as bad as Cas, or Sam. Me, sometimes. Sam lies for a living, Cas lies to save his life. I lie to get myself outta some sticky situations, but what about you? You just lie for the _hell_ of it!”  
“You don’t know what I’ve done for you, boy!”  
“Oh, really!”  
“Yes, really, you goddamn child! Why do you think you’re here, and not lost someplace, an orphan?”  
“All right, fine, you took care of me, don’t think I’m not grateful for that! But - damn it, Bobby - why in God’s name did you ever raise me into _this?_ ”  
“Into what, do I gotta ask?”  
“Into a killer!” Dean stepped forward, letting Castiel take off, startled. “Bobby, I’ve lost my entire _god_ damn life to being a, a, what? A hit-man? A soldier? No. I got nothing, I got nothin’ to fight for. This city never had a battle before me, it was always just playtime, a kid’s dream blown outta proportion. Bloodshed, for _nothing_. I got trained, in the Guard, on _your_ orders―”  
“If you weren’t here, doing what you were doing, where would you have been?”  
“Jesus, Bobby, it doesn’t matte―”  
“Answer the question!”  
“Fine! I would’ve been back at home, with Mom, with Dad. Burned to cinder along with the rest of them.”  
“And before then?”  
Dean stopped. “Before? What, Bobby, I was at the village, I was a kid―?”  
“You didn’t see it coming, did you? You didn’t see the messengers, the signs. You were too young. You never knew the reason your parents got shut off like that.”  
“Like... what?”  
“The year Sammy was born, that was the last of it.”  
“Last of what, Bobby?”  
Bobby pressed his lips into an angry line, beard wobbling as his jaw trembled.  
“I never knew it until last night. But I put it all together. Your parents shut themselves out from the rest of the world, just like the whole village. They had a year, almost. Just them. That’s when they had Sammy, I had to get you outta there before it all went down.”  
“Before _what_ went down?”  
Bobby threw the cloth he’d been holding down onto the floor, glaring after it. “The monks, the witches. Meg’s people, all on her orders. She ordered them all dead.”  
“I know that, Bobby.”  
Bobby shook his head. “They were bred for it. It was a cult, a farmyard of people. They cut them all off from everyone. I saw it comin’ well before it started. I forged everything for you, all your credentials, the last-minute submissions for the Guard. It was your only way out. Any other way and they’d hunt you down, as part of that village. Me ‘n Ellen already figured they would - they’d come after Sammy as well.”  
“But they didn’t.”  
Bobby shrugged. “Never know, maybe that was why they wanted to hang him.”  
“They wanted to hang him because he was a thief, Bobby―”  
“I don’t know! It was all a big cover-up, goddamn mystery of the century. We never knew what went on there, but it weren’t pleasant.”  
“They... did things to my parents? To Sam?”  
Bobby shrugged. “No way o’ knowing. When they were all dead, Meg used their souls to catch Death and tie him to the city. And Cas told us the other night, she used Death to get the angels.”  
Dean’s shoulders slumped, a fist pressed to his forehead. “She killed our parents... for this.”  
Dean looked at Castiel, who stared back, perched on the cage again. “She murdered people so that she could have Cas. So she could have his magic, so she could... do those things to him? Hurt him?”  
Dean winced and put his fist over his mouth. “I don’t know why you’re tellin’ me this now, Bobby, but unless you want me to go back on my promise not to kill her...”  
Bobby said nothing, only gazing stonily at Dean.  
Dean licked his lips. “Bobby, this prophecy. About the day and the night and whatever.”  
“Yep.”  
Dean looked out at the sky again. “Nothing’s happening.”  
Bobby blinked and lowered his head in a resentful nod.  
“Bobby... There’s something I need to do.” Dean reached up to take the hawk, and handed him to Bobby, then unwrapped the leather guard from his forearm and gave that to him too. “I’m going to kill Meg.”  
“Dean―”  
“You’re not stopping me this, time, all right? Magic sword or no magic sword. She deserves to die. She needs to die.”  
Bobby shook his head roughly. “This chance to break the curse won’t come again, Dean. Killin’ her damns you both to a half-life.” He glanced to Castiel, then back to Dean.  
Dean followed his gaze, examining the bird for a long time.  
“You’re right,” he said finally. “Bobby, I’m going ask you for a favour.”  
“I ain’t gonna like this, am I?”  
“If... the bells ring, at the end of service,” Dean began, looking across to the church standing bright in the morning light, “that means I’ve failed.”  
He handed Bobby his smallest dagger.  
“Make it quick. So he doesn’t feel it.” Dean spoke so quietly, a tremor in his voice.  
Bobby startled, realising what Dean meant him to do. “Kill Cas? Dean, are you _insane?_ ”  
“Maybe.” Dean thrust the knife handle into Bobby’s hand, then pulled his glove free and touched Castiel’s feathers with his bare fingers. “But him gone, it’s better than me gone and him having to live without me. He never wanted that. It sounds... selfish, I know, but... you heard the stories. He doesn’t want to live forever.”  
“Damn right he doesn’t, but that’s because he wants to live with _you_ , dammit. Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed now, of all times.”  
“When else, Bobby? Sun’s still there. Service has started already. Hope’s gone. I’m a wolf forever, Cas is a bird forever... Nobody wants that. We can’t go on like that.”  
“This ain’t the way to change it, son.”  
“It’s the way to change _something_.” Dean stepped back, then went for his saddlebag, first pulling out his visor, then the rest of what was left of his armour.  
Bobby stroked Cas’ head and didn’t argue. All was going according to plan.  
So long as Sam had done his part, everything should be smooth sailing from here. Or, smooth enough.  
~  
Dean trotted out into the central courtyard on Chevy’s back, visor in hand. There were Guardsmen ahead, keeping watch. Christian was there, on horseback.  
Dean let out a burst of air through taut lips. This had better go well, he prayed. A million things could go wrong. This was the most reckless thing he’d done in all of the five-and-a-half years since he’d left this city. Maybe it was the city that drove him mad. Maybe in reality, he was a perfectly sensible, rational man.  
Ah, who was he kidding. He felt that buzz of anger, that need to end it all. Kill Meg. He’d promised Ash, he’d sworn to Castiel. Everyone who had been at the receiving end of her power had wanted her reign to be over with. Dean had the ability to do that. He could break through her forces with the power-o’-love. Love for Castiel. It smothered everything.  
He stilled his horse, patting her on the neck. He had to think for a minute more.  
What if this was the wrong thing to do? What if there _was_ still time for the prophecy to come to pass? Killing Meg even a minute too soon would ruin everything. It was worse than not acting at all.  
But Meg...  
It was clear in his mind. Dean knew one thing for certain: Meg Masters had to die. And it was now or never. At least, it felt like it.  
He nudged Chevy forward, letting her carry him abreast of Christian.  
“Who goes there?” Christian asked, sword not drawn but tone as threatening as if it was. He knew Dean’s face, so it was really a stupid question.  
“Dean Winchester.”  
Christian froze, then looked to his grounded companions, some of whom shrugged. Turning back to Dean, Christian shook his head.  
“Thought you were dead, Winchester.”  
“Eh, close enough.” Dean tapped a finger on the visor on his lap, reassured by its heavy metallic sound. The last time Dean had worn it, he’d become Captain. Castiel had kissed his armoured cheek, for luck. Dean touched his fingertip, now, to where the kiss had been. It was like his lips had only just left.  
“I’m sorry, Winchester, but I have my orders―” Christian said, drawing his sword.  
Dean moved as fast as lightning, knocking Christian’s sword from his hand and sending it clattering to the ground, without even using a weapon of his own.  
Christian glanced at the sword, then back to Dean, shocked.  
“Let me pass, Christian.”  
Christian looked again to the other Guardsmen, none of whom seemed inclined to argue with Dean. Christian lowered his head in submission, and his horse reversed back a few steps, allowing Dean to pass.  
“Work on your reaction time, Christian, it’s as bad as your aim!” Dean called back.  
~  
Sam had already snuck to the back of the service, but that was the easy part. There were no monks by the main doors, but there were armoured Guardsmen at the back of the crowd, and if they saw him, there was the potential for a lot of trouble. He wasn’t sure if anyone would dare kill a monk at church in the middle of Sunday service, but knowing Raphael’s men, he wouldn’t put it past them.  
 _Oh crud._ Sam didn’t have the key. There was a lock, but there was no key.  
 _Think, Sammy. You’re a thief. You break into places for a living.  
...And since when did you start thinking of yourself as ‘Sammy’?_  
Sam inspected the floor around him, on the off-chance someone might have dropped it. He found no key, but instead saw that the Guard closest to him had a small dagger in his belt. That would do.  
Sam tiptoed closer. The man was watching Rufus, and paid no heed as Sam, biting his lip, tried to quiet his breath, and removed the knife from the belt. It slipped out with only a tiny hiss of leather, and the man cleared his throat. Sam jumped back silently, but found he was safe.  
He hurried back to the door and checked for anyone looking at him, before jamming the dagger right into the keyhole and jiggling it.  
It rattled, but the sound was covered by Rufus’ voice. One woman turned to look at him, and Sam stepped in front of the door, and winked at her. She did not react with a blush and a giggle, like Sam had expected from Dean’s tales - but frowned, and made her way deeper into the crowd.  
Sam turned back and bent down so he could see what he was doing. He turned the lock gently, then fast, then back the other way. This should not be this difficult.  
He heard the slicing sound of a sword being drawn, and immediately turned to find a Guardsman bearing down on him, sword pointing upward. He only had seconds.  
Sam gasped and jiggled faster, praying, wishing - anything at all - that the door would come free.  
Footsteps were getting nearer, faster, more determined. Three... two... on―  
The door unlatched with a clack, and Sam hurled himself backward as the opening burst apart, hooves flying down and knocking the Guardsman back.  
It was Chevy. She touched her hooves down and Dean was on her back, riding easily as they entered the church.  
Rufus stopped speaking. The crowd was stunned, but parted before Dean automatically. All eyes were on the black knight as he carried himself, graceful and purposeful, all the way up the aisle.  
Whispers of intrigue carried back to where Sam stood, still scouring the crowd for Death. Nothing.  
Horseshoes clopped rhythmically, Chevy almost prancing her way down the church. Dean halted her as they reached the end of the aisle, only a short run up from the pulpit before him. The crowd was standing well back now. It was Dean, facing down Meg.  
“Captain,” Meg said. Her voice carried clearly all the way to where Sam was, frantically edging through people and looking for Death. Meg’s tone was exactly how Sam had imagined it: cool, controlled, with a patronising bite. “Or, should I say, ex-Captain.”  
“It’s better like that,” Dean sneered. “I never liked your city anyway.”  
The entire crowd of monks and nobles seemed affronted by that, and Sam heard a loud grumble from a man who was decidedly too fat to be Death.  
“Oh, Winchester!” came another cry from the back of the church, and Sam, along with everyone else in the congregation, turned to see another horse striding inside, horseshoes clip-clopping the same way Chevy’s had, but just a touch lighter. This horse was white, and the man who sat atop its back was dressed in white armour, white leather and silver gauntlets. The face behind the visor was dark-skinned, and there was a cruel smile under the thin bars of metal.  
Raphael.  
Dean turned his horse completely, expecting a showdown. It was just like before, when Dean had won his Captaincy. Only this time, it really was to the death. This fight would not be over until Dean could get to Meg, and Raphael wouldn’t back down. Neither would Dean.  
Sam muttered a cuss under his breath, eyeing the horses. The white one shook its long mane, and ground a hoof into the floor of the church.  
“Hey there, Lucifer,” Dean said. Sam started, and realised that, yes, this horse fit the description. A slender, well-built stallion, spindly legs that somehow supported his whole body of muscle.  
“What, no greeting for the man?” Raphael called back, trying to steady the horse. He was not fully under his control, Sam noticed. Perhaps Lucifer had appreciated Dean’s acknowledgement, as it was surely more than he’d had in years.  
“Man’s not worth the trouble,” Dean replied, also trying to stop his horse from moving, but only because Chevy was aching to charge already, channelling Dean’s need.  
Raphael did not answer, but instead drew his sword. Dean did the same.  
“Let’s get this over with, Raphael,” Dean drawled, swooping his blade in a circle, raising it so it pointed directly across the church, to where Raphael sat.  
Raphael was the first to charge - “Yah!” he cried, and Lucifer kicked into action, hooves driving down the wide aisle of the church with a practised ease.  
Dean was already halfway down by the time Sam looked at him. Inside a building, even one as big as this chapel, the aisle looked too narrow - there couldn't be enough room for two horses to pass. But they did, without a hitch - only the swipe of a blade aimed at each man’s throat, neither hitting their target.  
Raphael turned first, Dean distracted by the distance the length of the aisle had put between himself and Meg, who was simply watching the proceedings with interest, dainty hands clasped over each other on her middle.  
Dean snorted and focused on Raphael, carried by Chevy’s determined steps. He and Raphael crossed in the middle again - Raphael was knocked back with a direct hit to his chest, which threw him back into a lying position while still atop Lucifer, who bucked, hard.  
Raphael roared and lifted himself up to tangle his gauntlet in Lucifer’s mane, and Sam could see that strands of horsehair were lodging themselves between the scales of the metal, Lucifer screaming in pain. His canter wavered as he charged, and Chevy had to stop her advance to back up as Lucifer careened into her side, both horses trotting sideways, almost in a dance.  
Dean took the opportunity to strike out at Raphael, sword connecting with his arm, harmless on armour. The pommel of his hilt banged into Raphael's thigh, and Raphael kicked out, armoured foot connecting with Chevy’s neck.  
Both horses neighed, Lucifer rearing up on his back feet. Dean struck Raphael again, this time over the head. The clang of metal on metal echoed around the church, and that was when Sam noticed there were people here that he recognised.  
He’d never seen them in person before, but there was Charlie, obviously five years older than he’d imagined her in his head - her red hair was bright amongst the nobles she stood with, her blue cloak and hood trying and failing to hide it. Beside her stood a man that Sam knew personally, Rat. He’d been his prison guard the night he escaped. Sam was still wearing his boots.  
Sam made his way over to them, having to cross the empty aisle, hoping his movement wouldn’t distract Dean as he bashed and slashed his weapon at Raphael.  
It seemed an evenly-matched fight now; Raphael was no longer an angel, he was human. His skills as a fighter rivalled Dean’s, but Sam knew Dean was better. When it came to Castiel, and revenge, and the drive to do what was right - Dean was always better. There was that drag of need and internal force that carried him, and Sam could see it now, while he found his way into the crowd. Dean was fighting dirty - cutting at Raphael’s knees while still attacking his face, trying to get his sword near his more unprotected areas. Dean needed to win this.  
“Pst,” Sam said, sidling up to the young woman. She turned, not an ounce of recognition in her eyes. “I’m Sam Winchester,” he breathed, and her eyes widened.  
“Rat - _Rat_ ―” she hissed, pawing at the man beside her. He looked across, and almost gasped aloud as he saw Sam’s face.  
“Oh my God,” Rat said, recognising Sam. “You’re still alive!”  
“If you’re wondering, Rat, I forgive you for giving away my description to the Guard,” Sam said, starting with the important things. He couldn’t have that hanging over Rat, not while he needed his help.  
Rat’s eyelids flickered and he cast a wary glance to Charlie, who was gaping at him in disbelief. She punched him, then turned back to Sam, sweetly. They were all distracted repeatedly by the clashing and banging of the fight that was still in progress, the horses thundering after one another between pillars.  
“You’re Dean’s brother?” Charlie whispered.  
“Yes,” said Sam, “and I need your help. Urgently. I need to find Death, is he here?”  
~  
Bobby looked between the bird on his arm and the sky, his fingers clenched.  
“Come on, come on...”  
The sun looked much like it always did, clouds floating past every few seconds. Bobby couldn’t get a good reading on what was going on, but it was definitely still daytime.  
This damn thing had better work. Otherwise Bobby had a very dishonest prophet to slaughter.  
~  
Dean was out of breath, but he kept going. Raphael rushed him from behind, and Lucifer was forced to kick out at Chevy. Chevy whinnied and backed away, her swaying rump pushing back a crowd of displeased people. Dean turned her toward the church's altar and guided her, limping slightly, to the centre of the aisle once more. She snorted hard, staring down Lucifer as he trotted halfway down and turned, both ready for another charge.  
Dean moved first, and Chevy leapt forward - Lucifer veered out of her way, not wanting to collide with her like Raphael was directing him to do. Lucifer bucked up on his hind legs, trying to throw Raphael off as Dean passed and circled the upright, swaying horse at a trot. His sword was aimed at Raphael. But Raphael overbalanced the stallion, and together the great weight of their bodies fell backward, Lucifer’s neigh resembling a scream.  
Raphael was entirely unharmed by his fall, and he kicked out in anger at the spine of his horse. He knew Lucifer had done that on purpose. Raphael stood with murder in his eyes, raising his sword to deliver Lucifer to the next world―  
He was stopped by a kick to his side, Chevy attacking with hoof after hoof, breaking the clasps of one entire side of Raphael’s armour. He grunted and swung his sword instead to her chest, slicing a blow on her collarbone.  
Dean yelled and leapt off his horse, pushing her back to safety. Lucifer rumbled to his feet and followed Chevrolet with a heavy limp.  
“Take it you didn’t learn anything after last time we did this, Raphael,” Dean scolded, sword curving in an arc to drive Raphael back a few steps. Raphael stumbled into the wooden platform at the front of the church. Meg was only ten feet ahead of where he was now.  
“What is there to learn from _you?_ ” Raphael snivelled in reply, lurching fully to his feet and swinging his sword to clank against Dean’s.  
“Nobody hurts my horse, Raphael. Not if they want to live.”  
“I’m not leaving this fight until you’re dead, Winchester,” Raphael replied, grinning behind his visor.  
“That’s good for me then, because you’re not leaving this fight at all.” Dean smashed Wendigo against Raphael's sword, both of them turning their feet to force each other back down the church aisle. “You’re _dead_.”  
Dean began a cascade of attacking swipes, again and again coming down hard over Raphael's shoulders. The blows to his helmet made the most awful noise; Dean was sure it was disorienting for the other man, and at the very least would give him a headache.  
They were halfway down the aisle now, and it seemed obvious that Dean was winning - until the other Guardsmen took it upon themselves to join the fight, and then Dean was suddenly fighting two men at once. The second was pushed down as easily as Christian had been; these men were not well-trained, they were only brave, or foolish.  
Three, four men at once. Every time, Dean knocked them down, back, or unconscious, and then returned to his focus on Raphael.  
A minute later, Dean became aware that he was not alone in fighting the other Guards. A commotion had started in the crowd, pushing people aside, and he could hear shouting and jeering, followed by the clanging sounds of - not swords, but...  
There was Missouri, and Pamela, and people from the kitchen that Dean had seen at Andy’s funeral. Charlie and Rat, as well. Garth, Jody, even Hastur. All fighting the Guardsmen, the kitchen staff using frying pans as weapons - Pamela was wielding a spatula.  
Dean laughed and was born with a new drive - he pushed Raphael back another ten feet, the ex-angel tripping over his own heavy feet. He was far less graceful as a human; some of his mojo must have gone towards keeping him upright.  
Dean slashed at Raphael's unprotected side, then at another Guardsman as the crowd was splitting, the separate sides of the church mingling as people yelled and cried out for the tiny battle that had begun.  
~  
Sam had to leave, and fast. The fight between Dean and Raphael was still raging, they’d been knocking each other off their horses and smashing swords for near ten minutes now. This whole plan was crazy, and it had been only half-formed - everything was messing up, just because Raphael was here.  
Sam hadn’t found Death yet - he was somewhere in the church, but nobody seemed to know where.  
Everything needed to be timed perfectly, and it was so hard to do when there were no accurate clocks on hand, nor a way to see the sun while they were inside.  
Exiting through the open church doors, Sam pounded down the streets, looking this way and that - which way was it to Bobby’s hideout? Where had they left the cart?  
It wasn’t far away, Sam rounded the church twice and found it, finally. It was open on one side to a street that nobody seemed to use. Sam patted Crowley the donkey’s nose as he came forward to greet him, but said nothing as he knelt on the dirt, frantically looking under the wagon.  
Here!  
Sam dragged out the sword, trying to undo the mess of rope that entangled it.  
This sword was magical, and was made to defeat evil, and recreate balance and justice in the world of Dean Winchester. And now, its burden was extended to Sam. He had his own justice to provide, and Dean could do it on behalf of all Winchesters, wielding this sword. This was the sword that was made for a purpose: to kill Meg Masters.  
~  
Guards were coming at Dean from all sides now - there was so many, far more than Dean had under his command as Captain. Again, Raphael had gone for quantity, not quality. These men and women were easy to defeat.  
It took Dean a moment to realise that some were not completely stupid - they were heading to the bells, to sound the alarm and call for reinforcements. Dean and his friends were getting the better of them, and they knew it.  
Dean drew a dagger from his side and launched it quickly to the bell tower, seeing a Guard running for the ropes. Dean’s hands clenched tight around his sword, as the man grabbed the rope as he fell - but no, the bell went unrung.  
Dean turned back to Raphael and struck away his attack - the fight had narrowed down to him and Dean again, the other people having pulled back to allow them to circle one another. Raphael grinned and wrenched his helmet off, about to speak, but Dean snarled and brought down a heavy flat-bladed thwack over Raphael’s neck, sending him to hit the ground with a thump - Raphael's helmet flew from his hand as he fell, and it shot straight up into a painted glass window above the doors of the church. The glass shattered, raining down in small shards with a long tinkling sound, like that of a tiny bell.  
Dean didn’t care to wait to see whether Raphael was alive or not - the congregation was falling silent again as he strode forward to the front of the chapel, sword raised.  
He didn’t have Sabbath, but Wendigo had served him well for most of his life. It was probably good enough that this sword would be the one to end it all, he thought.  
Dean could only see the confines of the front of the church, boxed in by the visor of his helmet - but as he reached the step up to the platform again, his vision changed - it fell as he fell, and his face was pressed to the dais as Raphael roared at him from behind, his armoured knee finding the small of Dean’s back, making him writhe in his attempt to get away. He was helpless like this.  
Dean’s helmet was ripped from the back of his head and it thunked down beside him; he turned and saw Raphael’s blazing eyes above him, ready to strike his sword into his throat―  
Dean kicked, hard, sending Raphael stumbling backward, step after step after step. The ex-angel tripped into the side of the aisle, head falling straight against a stone pillar, and with a heavy grunt he collapsed to the ground, sword clattering at his side.  
Dean’s attention was not on Raphael now, but the broken window straight ahead of him. Where Raphael’s helmet had shot through it before, it was open to the sky. The sun shone in, right on Dean’s face. But it was not all sun. A dark circle was crossing it, like a coin over a candle’s flame. It was hiding a quarter of the light, and it was moving, Dean could see it moving. It was going to cover the whole sun.  
It was the moon.  
Dean was shaken, a chill stealing over him. “Night... without a day... A day... without a night.”  
Meg had stepped forward, seeing it too. Dean looked back at her, mouth open. It was true, it was all coming true. This curse could be broken.  
But Dean had told Bobby to kill Castiel. What if he failed, what if the bell was rung? Castiel would be dead, and the prophecy had come true! Dean had to stop him―  
He scrambled to his feet, sword in hand, leaving his visor where it had fallen. He began to run back down the aisle, shouting. “Bobby! Bobby, wait!”  
He didn't get farther than ten feet before he was wrapped in arms of furious muscle - Raphael, come back to finish what they’d started. Both men clamoured and swung their swords, Dean hitting meaner and faster and more desperately. He had to get past, he had to stop Bobby―  
In a split second, Dean’s mind rushed him with information, things that were happening behind him: men were running for the bells again, and Dean had nothing left to throw.  
“ _No!_ ” he bellowed, arms out wide, in a futile warning.  
Only one man had to make it there, and the bell was pulled. Dean heard the clang reverberate over and over through the chapel. It was the same call that came after service. Having lived so much of his life here, Bobby would know it as that bell. He would take that to mean Dean had failed, and the service had ended peacefully.  
Dean knew Bobby. Bobby would stay true to his word. If he’d promised Dean that he would kill Castiel at the toll of the bell, then Castiel... was dead.  
It was like Dean’s whole world stopped. He didn’t notice his breathing, nor the beating of his heart. The entire chapel seemed darker, like the candles of Dean’s life had been blown out.  
And the sun. The sun was gone completely. It was night, in the middle of the day.  
After all of this, after they got so close, it was ended by Dean’s foolish plea to an old man, that Castiel need not live alone. If only Dean had waited another fifteen minutes.  
“Bobby,” he whispered. “Make it quick.”  
Dean swallowed hard, ignoring the tear that ran down his unmoving face.  
He turned and marched back to Raphael, who was waiting for him, confused by the sudden cease of battle. Dean walked right up to his face, looking him in the eye. He raised his sword and struck - and the fight began again.  
Nobody interfered now, it was just the two of them. Raphael cut close, cut unevenly, while Dean rammed his blade wherever he could reach, into Raphael's unprotected side, against his gullet. He was more heavily armoured than Dean, and the sound of Dean’s attack met Dean’s ears with a metallic crack every time. Every blow was his heartbeat, a single heartbeat.  
 _You’re not alone_ , he tried to tell himself. _You have Sam, you have Bobby, you have your new family._ Every word was punctuated by a strike of his sword. Raphael kicked him down, and Dean knocked him along with him; they rolled along the ground, low and relentless. Dean’s whole energy seemed closer to the ground, drowning with its weight.  
 _But you_ are _alone_ , his own mind replied, as Raphael attacked again, his knee on Dean’s inner thigh, the hilt of his sword at Dean’s throat. Dean rolled him off, throwing a kick at Raphael's ankles. _You’ll never know love like this again._  
Dean roared and struck Raphael across the face with the flat of his blade, both of them lying against the edge of the wooden dais, Meg’s white shoes visible at Dean’s eyeline. He felt a blade on his cheek, pressing, and he shoved it away, slicing the leather on his gloved hand.  
He kicked backwards and caught Raphael on his lower back, launching him far away from him. Raphael grasped for his own sword where Dean had pushed it, and his footsteps swayed as he tried to get back to Dean. Raphael was bleeding from the head, a line of blood oozing from his ear.  
Dean went for his own sword to find he was weaponless - Wendigo was lost a good few paces away, but Dean was too beaten down to reach for it. His heart and his body, all beaten.  
He saw Raphael advancing, walking calmly, sword ready to stab downwards. Dean crawled backward, slinking over the edge of the dais and slipping slightly on the wood. He had nowhere to go; Meg was behind him, watching without interfering. She, like Dean himself, could see where this was going. Dean was going to join Castiel in the afterlife.  
Dean’s mind fluttered, and with a pang of emotion, he realised Sam would be on his own again. Sam was meant to be here, in this church. He could be hiding, he could be about to watch Dean die. Watch his brother die.  
Dean couldn’t let that happen. He’d known enough loss in his life to know what that would do to Sam. He would not allow it. He was going to live, for the sake of his brother.  
With a smile, Dean raised a low hand and beckoned Raphael the last few paces to him. _Come at me._  
Raphael did not see the determination in Dean’s eye. As he brought the sword down to stab Dean, Dean rolled into Raphael’s legs. The sword stuck straight into the ground, bending - Dean pushed himself into the flat of it, sending it flapping down to the ground. Dean turned over it, feeling the hilt digging into his side as his body covered it, rolling.  
Raphael was still falling toward Dean, reaching for the sword, but Dean got there first. He grabbed the hilt and raised the point of the blade, directing it straight into Raphael’s fall. Raphael’s hands scrambled for nothing, fingers clenching on thin air. Dean saw the rush of blood come from his mouth, the wide eyes of realisation when he saw the sword in his stomach.  
Raphael wheezed, then keeled over to the side, stuttering into death.  
It was the same way Raphael had killed Gordon, making him fall on Dean’s sword. Dean clenched his jaw, feeling some justice was done, not only for Gordon, but for every man, woman and child, that Raphael had ever done wrong by.  
But it wasn’t over. It was far from over.  
Dean let out a breath and then stood up, legs trembling. He was weakened, but still ready for a fight. He wasn’t giving up now.  
“Captain,” Meg said, weakly. Oh, she was scared.  
Dean flashed a cold smile at her. “Not Captain. This city has no Captain now, Meg,” he said, blinking. It was as dark as night, and he could barely make out her features, but her white dress gave her the appearance of a glowing like a ghost. The whole church was silent, waiting with bated breath.  
“No matter.”  
“I’m here to kill you, Meg. In case you hadn’t worked that out already.”  
Meg huffed. “But, kill me, Dean... and the curse will go on forever.”  
Dean licked his lips, trying to calm his heavy breathing.  
“You must consider how Castiel would fare,” Meg crooned, lips pouting like she was talking in a baby voice to a child. “Or,” she added, breaking into a mocking smile, “is it, _Cas?_ ”  
Dean almost felt like laughing, inexplicably.  
“Cas... is dead.”  
Meg’s face fell.  
Dean ground his teeth. He felt so much hatred in that moment. Hatred was a feeling as strong as love, surely. No defence Meg made against him would work now, not if he tried to hurt her. He drew a breath, raised his sword, ready to strike―  
“Dean?”  
Dean stopped. He blinked. Meg blinked back.  
Dean turned, looking toward the voice. There was only one voice in the whole of existence that could say his name like that.  
His eyes fell upon nothing but darkness, but the shapes of movement presented a figure as it strode forward, slowly, down the aisle of the church.  
Castiel. It was Castiel, alive, human.  
Dean lowered his sword, hearing it clang on the ground by his feet. Castiel stopped, halfway up the aisle. Nobody approached, nobody in the church moved.  
“Cas,” Dean breathed. Nothing in the world mattered but the man standing half an aisle away from him. It was too far away.  
He stepped forward, heading off the dais. He moved slowly, forgetting how to use his own feet. He was carried by the air, he felt like he was floating.  
Sam stepped out of the crowd, drawing Dean’s eye for a moment. Sam’s attention was not on Dean and Castiel for now, but on something he’d seen across the church - he began to run diagonally across the clear area, Castiel turning his head to see Sam running past―  
Dean saw where Sam was headed, he’d seen Death uncloaking his face just on his right - unfortunately, Meg saw this at the same moment.  
“No!” she screeched, and Dean only caught the fast movement of her hand in the corner of his eye, and a rush of energy flew against Sam’s body, knocking him back a long distance. The sword in his hand dropped from his grip, flung across the aisle and landed a foot from Dean. Sam’s body was ripped open, blood tossed from him as he fell to the stone floor, head lolling to the side.  
Without another thought, Castiel turned to run to him, and Dean turned his attention to Meg, anger and hatred and utter, _utter_ fury dancing like fire in his eyes.  
He picked up the sword from the ground, the one Sam had dropped. The flash of surprise he felt when he saw that it was Sabbath only lasted a moment.  
“You know one thing worse than hurting my horse?” Dean said to Meg, capturing her full attention as he made his advance on steady legs, sword raised to his side. “Hurting... my... _family_.”  
Meg lifted a hand to keep Dean back, her magic breaking over Dean like cold water, like he was trying to walk through a bubble of invisible diamond.  
But the diamond smashed, easy as a thought. Dean took another step closer, then another. Meg was backing away, not able to take her eyes off Dean to look where she was going. She threw forcefield after forcefield at Dean, but nothing touched him, nothing scratched him. He was unharmed, and growing more furious by the second.  
Meg seemed distracted for a moment, eyes flicking to where Castiel knelt beside Sam. Her mouth was open, and she spoke unheard words, suddenly scrambling for the neck of her dress. With a flick of her hand over her heart, a bottle appeared. It was like the others, the other angel Grace vials, but this one was white, and glowing like a tiny sun. She clutched it tightly in her hand and lifted it so it was held between Dean and herself.  
Dean felt more resistance, more barriers, more force trying to knock his sword loose and curdle his insides. He fought it, his mind on Castiel and on Sam.  
~  
“Sam. Sam, you’re going be all right―”  
“Cas, w-what are you doing?”  
“I’m healing you, Sam.”  
“Cas... your power - you’ll b―” he gasped in pain, “immortal, C-Cas, you can’t use your p―”  
“If you die, Sam... there is nothing that will fill that void for Dean. He can survive without me. But he needs his family. He needs you. You are the love of his life. Not me. He _needs_ his brother.”  
Sam grimaced, gasping over and over. There was blood drenching everything, all he saw was red, and the pale hands that stroked over his body, sealing him back together.  
Beside Sam’s feet, the precious ring was pulsing brightly like a tiny fallen star on a silver chain, lying where it had fallen. A shadow loomed over him, a skeleton coming to pluck the light from the ground. It was Death.  
It was Death, come to claim Sam’s soul.  
No... it was Death―  
Come to claim his power.  
~  
Meg’s hand trembled with the vial in her palm. She was backed right up against the wall now, her dark hair catching on the grooves in the stone. She glanced to the bottle, and suddenly her eyes flew wide with shock.  
Dean saw what she’d seen: the bottle was almost empty. There was only a single drop of glowing liquid left, and even as Dean watched, it was disappearing.  
“No!” Dean shouted, leaving Meg at the front of the church and running back to Castiel. Castiel was hunched over Sam, and Sam was just lying there, not moving.  
“S-Sam...”  
“He’s all right, he’s going to be okay,” Castiel told him.  
He looked up, and Dean met his eyes. They were as pure a blue as they’d ever been.  
Dean’s hand trembled as he took the last step closer, roughly tugging his gloves to the ground, one after the other. Castiel didn’t move, and Dean reached... He could touch Castiel’s face. This was real, this was happening. Castiel’s mouth moved into a smile, gaze so beautiful and bright, even in the darkness.  
Meg’s footsteps were crossing the ground, and both Dean and Castiel turned as one to see her hammering the floor as she made her way to them, dress wavering in her wake.  
Castiel stood up, eyes on Dean as he passed him, walking calmly to Meg to meet her before she reached Dean and Sam.  
Castiel raised his hand. _Stop._  
She stopped.  
She looked terrified all of a sudden. The Grace vial in her hand was vibrating, from her own hand or from its power, Dean couldn’t be sure.  
Castiel stared at her for a moment. Then he reached out a hand, sliding it into his pocket. He withdrew something, and Dean knew at once what it was. His ring. _Property of the High Priestess._  
Castiel was nobody’s property.  
Sam sat up, breathing heavily. Dean touched his hair, and together they watched as Castiel lifted his hand, the same way Meg did before she cast her magic - _Castiel’s_ magic.  
But his fist was closed on the ring, and he held it out to Meg’s face, opening it and showing her clearly what he held. Meg looked at it, and then back to Castiel.  
Castiel straightened his shoulders, every bit as defiant as the first moment Dean had met him.  
Castiel did not throw the ring. Dean knew why: he was not a violent man, he detested violence. A warrior, but not a killer. Not one to hurt. No matter what Meg had done to Castiel, he would never dare do the same to her.  
He dropped the ring, and it fell, spinning, tinkling onto the ground. It was dirt. It meant nothing.  
Castiel released his magical hold on Meg, stepping back. Then he turned, eyes meeting Sam’s, then Dean’s. Dean could see in the corner of his vision, Meg’s fury was building. She was shaking, shoulders tense.  
She raised her hand, but Dean was ready to move before she even spoke.  
“If I can’t have you... no _man_ shall―”  
Sabbath found the place in her shoulder above her heart. Dean’s aim plunged it swift and true, right through her body. Not a killing blow, the curse needed to be broken first. As she fell to the ground, she collapsed to her side, the sword wrenching inside her. Her dress pooled out around her in white, joined by the circle of blood that soaked into it.  
She still trembled, not yet dead.  
Castiel stared down at her, Dean standing beside him. Sam coughed, stumbling to stand on Dean’s other side. Dean looked him up and down; he was drenched in his own blood, but the wounds on him were healed. As were the wolf scratches.  
“Is... it over?” Castiel whispered, looking to Dean.  
Dean didn’t want to break eye contact for the life of him, but he had to glance to the sky - the sun was still covered by the moon, it was still night.  
“Not just yet,” Bobby said, stepping out of the silently stunned crowd with a taller, thinner man by his side. “One bit left.”  
“Hello, Castiel,” Death said. “Dean. And Sam, lovely to meet you.”  
Sam coughed gently, surprised. Kindness, politeness. That was not what he expected from Capital-D Death, despite the stories painting him as such.  
“Now, one last, final part in this,” Death said, holding both hands out, like pale, floating spiders in the dark. His right hand wore the silver ring, which was glowing brighter than ever. “I must join you, as man and... hm, man.”  
Dean huffed a laugh, head down. Castiel’s hand was already in Death’s.  
Dean glanced to Sam and winked. “Ah, what the hell,” he muttered, then he too slapped his hand into Death’s.  
At once, a warm wind came out of nowhere, ruffling everyone’s hair and clothes. It was like summer, like how a night breeze rushes through a field, bringing up leaves and dust, with a sweet scent of peace.  
Dean and Castiel were looking at each other, shoulders heaving as they breathed, eyes shining. Dean recognised none of his emotions. He’d never felt like this. It was like the most painful orgasm on Earth. The most heart-wrenching pleasure. It was impossible, it was as terrible as it was bright and beautiful.  
Death pulled away after a long moment, lowering his head. “It is done. You are both freed from your curse.”  
Bobby grunted his approval. Sam put a bloody hand in his own hair and drew it back, laughing quietly.  
Meg remained stuttering on the floor, but the life was leaving her now; she twitched and rasped a final breath, then lay unmoving. Dead.  
“Now, I have a few errands to make up for,” Death said, clapping his hands once. He looked at Bobby and bowed, and Bobby almost jumped. “I thank you for your faith, Bobby Singer. Karen sends her love.”  
Death turned to Sam, setting a bony hand upon his shoulder. Sam gaped. “I thank you for your honesty, Sam Winchester. Your loyalty goes unmatched.” Death nodded respectfully, and Sam almost felt like his body was ripped in half again, purely out of shock.  
Death took a step towards Dean, and tipped his chin upward, looking down at him with a smile. “Dean Winchester, you have my thanks for your unwavering love. Without it... well, I’m sure you know.” Death bowed with a flourish, making Dean laugh sharply. Death winked at him, smiling.  
Castiel came last. They both stood still, and he and Death only looked at each other, for a very long time.  
The crowd around them began to murmur, asking questions amongst themselves.  
“I thank you,” Death said. “Castiel.”  
Castiel nodded deeply, eyes closing. “I have so many things to thank _you_ for,” he said, shaking his head now, “I cannot possibly―”  
Death set a single finger over Castiel’s lips, and Castiel looked into his eyes again. Death leaned forward, and for a second, Sam thought he was going to kiss Castiel - but instead their foreheads leaned together, both their eyes closing. It must be some sort of... power-bonding. Sam squinted, sharing a brief glance with Dean.  
Castiel gasped suddenly, eyes flicking open as Death pulled back. Light dawned in the church like a new day, and both Dean and Sam turned to see a ray of sunlight breaking out from behind the shadow of the moon. They both looked to Castiel, who was staring at Death. Still human, not a hawk. It was the start of a new life.  
“Th-thank you,” Castiel whispered, overcome. “Oh, thank you so much―”  
“It is only fair,” Death said, looking to Dean, setting a hand on the side of Castiel’s head, then dragging it away as he stepped back. “Enjoy the gift, for it is a joyous one.”  
“I shall.” Castiel looked at Dean, absolute elation on his face, making even the scar on his chin look beautiful.  
 _But what was the gift?_ Sam looked on curiously.  
Death was walking away, crossing the aisle to Meg’s fallen body. Leaning over her, he withdrew Sabbath from her shoulder, wiping it clean with the movement of a finger. He set it on its point on the floor, and as he moved his hand away, it stayed balanced.  
“Now you’re just showing off,” Dean muttered, and Death caught his eye and smiled.  
“There would be little point in being the most powerful creature to roam the Earth, if I were not able to show off.”  
Dean smirked and shrugged, hand finding Castiel’s. Castiel shivered and tangled his fingers between Dean’s.  
Death lowered himself over Meg’s body, a fingertip pressing to her heart. As he pulled his finger upward, a line appeared, a glossy chain of black unspooling from her chest. For all the purity of her life, her clothes, her church, her city... her soul was as dark as a shadow. A demon, not a woman.  
Death absorbed the soul into his own body, eyes closing as it entered him through his hands and his face. He shook his head sadly as it finished, and he straightened, stepping back.  
“It is done. Well, I’ll be off then.”  
Castiel started forward, but then hesitated, then finally nodded. “Don’t forget me.”  
Death smiled, turning his head to the side of the church. “I believe you promised a friend of yours the same thing.”  
Castiel looked to Lucifer, smiling as the horse whinnied. “And I never have.”  
“I shall do you the same courtesy,” Death said, nodding again to Castiel. “And with that, gentlemen, I take my leave. May the day I come to collect you be a long time in the distant future. Farewell, my friends.”  
He tipped his head to the sky, eyes shut. As the sun breached the window fully, a burst of sunlight enveloped Death and he glowed from the inside out, swirling with sound and light and colour. Sam smelled daisies, and old books, and honey mead from the Roadhouse.  
And then, it was all gone; everything was silent. It was as cold in the church as it had been before, but beginning to bustle with human life as everyone shifted on their feet.  
Dean, Sam, Castiel and Bobby looked at each other, unsure what to do now. Most of the crowd was the same, voices carrying with undercurrents of excitement. The city was without leaders now; only Rufus remained, sitting stock-still on the base of his pulpit.  
After a long moment, applause began to rain through the church - Sam turned to see it was their friends, the psychics and the Guardsmen, ex-angels and humans alike. There was a man who Sam assumed was Balthazar, and a chubby man who had to be Cupid. Everyone was cheering, recognising the end, a transition of power that was long past due.  
Dean and Castiel turned to each other, laughing. Castiel put his hands on Dean’s face, head shaking ever so slightly.  
“I... I can’t believe...” he stuttered, shivering.  
Dean smiled down with his lips parted, breathing over Castiel’s fingers as they touched his mouth. With his eyes still on Castiel’s, Dean kissed his fingertips. In a second, they leaned as one to press their lips together, one single kiss. Dean gasped and pulled away, gaze roaming Castiel’s face.  
“You look older,” he breathed, eyes glimmering in awe.  
“So do you,” Castiel chuckled, running his hands down Dean’s cheek.  
Dean grinned gently, fingers finding Castiel’s chin. He stroked a thumb down the line from Castiel’s lip to his jaw, where the hair didn’t grow, where it was pale and just slightly raised.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean sighed.  
Castiel cupped Dean’s fingers in his own hand, pulling him away from the scar. “Don’t be,” he said. “It’s in the past. It’s a reminder, nothing more.”  
Dean blinked, lip twitching. Castiel looked at Dean’s mouth and smiled.  
They grabbed for each other, faces pressed to together as their mouths opened to kiss deeply, tongues tasting one another for the first time in five years. Dean sighed a blissful note, and Castiel broke the kiss to laugh.  
Dean hauled him into his arms and lifted him - Castiel shrieked a laugh and let him spin him in the air, stomach against Dean’s mouth. “I love you, _I love you!_ ” Castiel cried out, announcing it to everyone in the church.  
The cheering quieted for a second and then started up again, louder and more furious, pots and pans clanking against swords. Sam and Bobby clutched at each other’s sleeves, laughing with joy, clapping with everyone else.  
As Dean let Castiel slide back to Earth, kissing him again, Sam whooped, punching the air.  
This was how it was always meant to be. All was well.  
Bobby hit Sam on the arm, waving him down so they could speak.  
“Roadhouse?”  
Sam caught Bobby’s glance and nodded. “Roadhouse.”  
They both went back to cheering.  
After a few minutes, the crowd was half-gone, the more disgusted of the audience having left when the kissing started. Once the roar of voices in the church had lessened, Castiel finally let Dean go, their hands sliding together as easily as anything.  
Dean looked over to Sam and his face spread into a wide, wide grin. Sam tilted his head and patted him on the back, chuckling.  
“Hey, Dean? We’re headed to the Roadhouse. You coming?”  
Dean glanced at Castiel, who looked rather overwhelmed. “Don’t think we’re ready for a honeymoon just yet,” he said to Sam, and shrugged a shoulder. “Sure. Why not.”  
Sam nodded and led them toward the doors, through the now-empty church. He’d expected their friends to stick around, but everyone had already left. A pity, as Sam would have liked to meet them all without a pressing need hanging over their heads.  
“Sam, wait,” Bobby said sharply, tugging his elbow back. Sam looked around to see Dean with Castiel in arm, collapsed.  
“What - holy - what happened?”  
Dean shook his head, gasping. “I - I dunno, he just... his eyes rolled back and he just―” Dean hefted Castiel’s body into his arms, clutching under his back and in the crook of his knees. “He’s still breathing―”  
Bobby touched Castiel’s face, then nodded gently. “He’s fine, he’s just gonna sleep it off.”  
“Sleep what off?” Sam frowned.  
“He just used almost all his power up savin’ your life, you idjit,” Bobby snarked at Sam, and Sam bit his lip. “Angels don’t do so well after a healing, or did you miss that part of the story?”  
Sam huffed and raised his hands in surrender.  
Dean looked between them, shifting his feet as he looked at the unconscious Castiel in his arms, head thrown back and throat exposed. “Can we get someplace else? Please?”  
“Roadhouse,” Bobby and Sam said together, and Dean nodded.  
“Someone get my sword,” Dean muttered, nodding sideways at Sam. Sam ran across the church and grabbed the still-balanced sword off its point. Meg lay beside it, eyes staring out at nothing. Sam hesitated, then went closer, kneeling. Slowly, he set his hand on her eyelids and brushed them closed. Even the evil deserved some respect, he decided.  
From her hand, he prised the white vial, the one containing Castiel’s remaining Grace. Shaking it gently, Sam couldn’t even hear a swish of liquid, there was so little left. It was just a thin film at the bottom. If Castiel ran out... he’d be immortal. Sam gulped.  
He glanced quickly at Raphael’s body, but didn’t take a step closer. The respect in that, was simply keeping his distance.  
Sam waved a hand to Chevy and Lucifer, who were now the only other conscious beings in the church, aside from Sam. Chevy came first, then swung her head to Lucifer, giving him a reassuring nicker, and he followed her lead. They were both still limping, and Sam sighed sadly, putting a hand on each of their heads.  
“Still got a long walk, guys,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get Crowley to pull the cart. Keep the weight off those legs, hm?”  
Lucifer looked at Sam curiously. Sam smiled, patting the white horse.  
“I’m Sam. Dean’s brother, Castiel’s friend. Nice to meet you.”  
Lucifer stared, and then snorted a greeting. Both horses went ahead and exited the church, Sam hanging back.  
This was all very surreal, and to Sam, nothing felt believable at all. He had just been personally thanked by Capital-D Death. His brother had just un-curse-married another man. And on that note, he actually _had_ a brother.  
Sam let out a heavy puff of air, looking around the church hall. It was calm in the daylight. There were several dead bodies in here, as well as many unconscious Guards, and Sam lowered his eyes, thinking of Anna and Gabriel, and how they were also laid here once their vessels had expired.  
He turned and left the chapel, seeing Dean at the end of the walkway, Castiel still in his arms. He ran to catch up, then with a wink to Dean, ran ahead and helped Bobby hitch the horses back to the cart. Crowley grumbled, but allowed Gabriel to stand beside him. Gabriel was only marginally taller, but both were like dwarves in comparison to Chevrolet and Lucifer. Sam chuckled, thinking back to when they’d had Gabriel and Chevy pulling the cart at once.  
“How long until we can be back at the Roadhouse?” Sam asked Bobby, pulling the blankets off the roof of the cage and throwing them inside. It looked quite cushy in there, really.  
“Depends how much we stop. If anyone feels like travellin’ in the dark, could be there sometime soon after midnight.”  
“Yeah,” Dean said, grunting as he made his way into the shelter. His arms were shaking with Castiel's weight, but he managed to heave him onto the back of the cart, Castiel mumbling in his sleep. “Yeah, go through the night. Cas needs a real bed. _I_ need a real bed.”  
“You up for that?” Sam asked Gabriel out of the corner of his mouth.  
Gabriel’s nose twitched. “The answer to that is the same as the answer to ‘Is Gabriel a girl horse?’.”  
“Uh.” Sam looked at Gabriel. “Bailey’s a girl horse, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“So. Yes?”  
“Yes.”  
Sam nodded and patted Gabriel on the head as he moved on. Dean was climbing into the cage with Castiel, spreading blankets out under them.  
“I’m, uh, gonna stay in here.”  
Sam nodded, holding the back of the cage open for a moment while Dean got comfortable. He lay Castiel in the middle, feet to the door. Dean lay on his right, propped up on his elbows. His face wobbled into a smile, and he looked at his younger brother as Sam set Sabbath down beside Dean’s leg.  
“He’s really here,” Dean breathed.  
Sam grinned and closed the gate, latching it but not locking it. “Yeah. Keep him safe, we’ve got a long ride ahead.”  
Dean hummed a note and lay down, eyes back on Castiel’s sleeping face.  
Sam sat next to Bobby at the front, not needing to tie Lucifer or Chevy to the cart to know that they would follow at their own pace.  
“Where is everyone?” Sam asked as the cart began to move.  
“Everyone who?”  
“All their friends. Your friends. Everyone. Missouri and Charlie and Cupid and... that lot.”  
Bobby shrugged. “Maybe they had more important things to do.”  
Sam flattened his lips, keeping an eye out as the wagon rolled into the street. They got some strange looks, from people who either had seen or heard what had happened - or simply thought it odd that a single cart should need four horses and two drivers.  
The city was oddly quiet, and there was none of the bustle that was all around when they’d gotten into the citadel. Every person here was subdued, almost like they were in mourning. Mourning for what? They should be celebrating, as the churchgoers had.  
“Bobby, what’s going to happen to Zamreer?”  
“Rufus has got this one, he’ll work out how to run the place. He was probably doin’ it already once I left.”  
Sam smiled. “When you were still here, did Meg actually do anything?”  
“Nothin’.”  
“Huh.” Sam bumped his eyebrows. “So... literally nobody was running this place before.”  
“Nobody needs to know that, boy. If it works, you leave it how it is.”  
“What about change?”  
“What _about_ change?”  
Sam sat up straighter as they crossed the drawbridge. Nobody stopped them.  
“Well, what if someone wanted to change a law?”  
Bobby looked at Sam through slitted eyes. “What’re you on about, boy?”  
Sam shrugged, smiling slyly. “I dunno. I just feel like, there’s a lot of havoc to be played here. You start a rumour, and it becomes a story, and eventually people just accept it as fact.”  
“What’s your point?”  
“I grew up with stories, Bobby. About the Captain of this city being a bad person.”  
“Raphael?”  
“No. About Dean.” Sam swallowed, watching the gap between the cart and the bridge to Evacéra grow smaller. “The stories... were about a man who corrupted a good angel, kidnapped her.”  
“Her?”  
“That’s what I mean. The story Dean first told me, when we met... He told me Cas was a girl. That story made it all the way to the Roadhouse, there were songs about it. We heard the little girls across the road singing skipping games with the story. But it wasn’t like that at all.”  
“You got a point there, buddy?” Dean called from the back.  
Sam grinned. “I’m just saying,” he said, louder, so Dean was included. “We could tell the real story. About how two men fell in love and brought down the evil Priestess with the help of a thief and an old man.”  
“What would that solve, exactly?” Dean muttered.  
Sam shrugged. “Might get you some closure.”  
“I don’t need closure, you ass,” Dean said, leaning up on his elbow to look at Sam through the bars. “I just need a good meal and a nice bed, a really good screw, and then I can ride off into the sunset with a ‘just un-cursed’ sign on the back of my horse.”  
Sam laughed. “Sure you do.”  
Dean snorted and lay back down. Several extended minutes of silence passed as they crossed the border into Evacéra. Dean suddenly looked up, clearing his throat to get Sam’s attention.  
“Yeah?” Sam said, not looking back.  
“So these stories,” Dean said. “Songs? How’d they go?”  
Sam grinned. ”I hardly remember. But you were like... really good at fighting, and you climbed a tower to get the angel out.”  
“You sure it was us?” Dean was frowning as he spoke, Sam could hear it in his voice. “I mean, if you grew up with it... it was only five years ago, and you’re, what... twenty-something?”  
Sam’s eye twitched. “Hm.” Now he wasn’t so sure. “Okay, maybe you have a point. But it’s weird, that it was all so similar.”  
“Stories are stories, Sammy. They get remembered ‘cause that kind of thing actually happens in real life. Stories about angels falling in love, Cas can’t be the only one. ‘Angel’... heh, that’s probably a metaphor for a beautiful woman. Besides, I didn’t kidnap anybody,” Dean said, voice muffled as he spoke against Castiel’s face.  
“You kidnapped _me_ ,” Sam grinned.  
“Rescued, bitch.”  
“Whatever, jerk.”  
~  
Hours and hours passed - early afternoon came and went, and by the time they stopped for lunch, there was really only an hour left until sunset. Winter days were so short, there was no time for anything.  
Castiel hadn't woken up yet, and nobody thought it would be sensible to rouse him. He’d wake when he was ready.  
Dean lay back down as the cart started moving again. A blanket was had been thrown over Castiel’s body, and it hadn’t been disturbed since it was put there. Castiel was such a calm sleeper.  
Dean stroked a hand over Castiel’s face, sighing. His skin was cold, not from sickness or nearing death, but only from the bite of the air, and the fact that the cage was so open. If Dean lay flat on his back, he could watch the clouds rolling past, or the sway of the roof bars’ shadows as the cart rocked and bumped.  
They should put a lantern in here, Dean thought. They could hang it on the top, maybe put a proper roof on here... No, one that could be removed, so he and Castiel could lie and look at the stars. They could take this cart with them when they travelled.  
Chevy and Lucifer could pull them, and Dean could sit up on the bench with his arm around Castiel, and together they would watch the world pass by, stopping to enjoy whatever they discovered. Making friends with other travellers, eating foreign foods, bathing in pools that no human had ever set foot in.  
Dean sat up and leant with his chin on his elbow. Night would be falling soon, as sunset was approaching. He caught sight of the horizon, the sun dipping against the mountains. It was force of habit that had him reaching for his shirt and beginning to pull it off.  
He stopped, and let it fall back to his torso, looking at Castiel supine before him, breathing softly.  
Dean still couldn’t quite believe it. To go five years, and never know anything else in that time, to always expect the same thing, never with any hope of change... It was truly remarkable that now, his lover, his mate... he was here. They were together.  
When Castiel woke up, everything would be different. Neither of them would be a prisoner, they’d be free men. And they had family now. They could fulfil their dreams, as they’d wanted.  
Dean put a hand over his mouth as he realised he now had everything he’d ever wanted.  
Everything.  
He had a family. He had freedom. A lover; a place to call home - even the road, the road was his home. The Roadhouse made for a perfectly good second, or even a stepping-stone to their travels.  
Dean chuckled and sank down beside Castiel again, hand slipping under the blanket to touch his hip. The sun dropped behind the mountain, and Dean watched it go.  
It was the first sunset he’d seen in five-and-a-half years, and no claws came from his hand to dig into Castiel’s skin. His teeth didn’t try to cut his own lip. No tail burst from his behind. He was human, and so was Castiel.  
Everything was perfect. Now, if only Castiel would wake up―  
“What’s that?” Dean mumbled, something bright catching his eye. He squinted at it, seeing something that glimmered only half the time, pushed deep into the recesses of the cage, buried under blankets and pressed into the wood.  
With a glance to Castiel, Dean slipped away and crawled on his hands and knees to inspect the tiny light. His fingers touched it, and immediately knew what he’d found.  
“Hey, Sam,” Dean said.  
“Hm?” Sam muttered, head turning. “How are you enjoying night-time?”  
“It’s friggin’ awesome,” Dean said, then added, “You’ll never guess what I just found.”  
Sam turned fully, hand steadying himself on the metal bars as he tried to see. “What?”  
“Give you three guesses. It’s small, it’s shiny, and I lost it the night I turned into a wolf.”  
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Your Captain ring?”  
Dean chuckled. “Nope. I got no idea where that is. No, look. This thing.”  
Dean passed it through the bars and set it in Sam’s hand. The glass chain coiled into Sam’s palm, and the teardop pendant sat atop the coil, glowing gently.  
Sam gasped, then shrieked, “Ew-ew-ew, get it off me, ew, Dean―”  
Dean took it back hastily and looked at it, wondering if he’d accidentally picked up some sort of glowing insect by mistake. “What, what’s wrong with it?”  
“ _I know where it’s been, Dean_.”  
“Been...?”  
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam hissed, shaking his hand out and wiping it on his trousers. “You don’t remember sucking that thing? Ew, God, gross.”  
Dean dragged in a fast breath, clutching the pendant in his fist. “Oh. Right. With Cas’ cock and the... sucking. Yeah.”  
Sam growled and hopped off the slow-moving cart to go and wipe his hands on the grass, then ran back and jumped back into his seat.  
“If you ever make me touch that thing again, Dean, I will kill you.”  
Dean huffed. “Um. Noted.” He sank back into the cage, crossing his legs as he sat with his shoulders against the bars. He unclasped the pendant’s chain and put it around his neck, looking at it as it hung there.  
He wondered how it had gotten here. He’d been wearing it as he transformed the first time, and he’d been told by Bobby about how he was shoved inside the confession booth. And then the booth became this cart. Somehow it must have been transferred through all of that, and ended up... here. Right back around Dean’s neck.  
He realised now that it wasn’t actually glowing at all, it was just the low light playing tricks. He looked up to the sky.  
“Holy shit, stars,” he breathed, and Sam and Bobby both hummed a pleased note for him.  
“You never think you’d miss something as small as stars,” Dean said, talking more to Castiel than anyone else, “but man, I missed the weirdest things.  
“Having to squint until your face hurts. I’ve completely lost my night vision, everything’s like a black blur. Night smells different, as well. Feels heavier - or lighter, can’t tell. The air’s just different.  
“Bet you’d think daytime’s weird too, Cas,” Dean whispered, stroking a thumb over Castiel’s ear. “You’d miss birds, how they sing in the evening. Wonder if you can whistle properly now.”  
“He can,” Gabriel called back. “He’s good at woodpigeons, and I think he got peacock down the other night at Limn’mere. I taught him that one.”  
Sam scoffed. “You taught him the horse version of a peacock,” he said. “Your peacock impressions are as bad as your singing.”  
“Ooh, singing,” Dean said suddenly, sitting upright. “Hey, does anyone know any songs?”  
“ME!” Gabriel shouted, and the entire congregation groaned as one. Even Crowley hawed his dismay.  
~  
It was the longest time that Sam had ever travelled with other people without arguing. Gabriel’s banter didn’t count, that was just for fun. Sam almost felt like Gabriel was trying to flirt with him, which was a thought he would rather not dwell on.  
He barely recognised anything in the dark, but having travelled this road three times in just over two weeks, Sam realised they were close to the Roadhouse already. It had to be a few hours past midnight, maybe two or three in the morning. All the blankets were in the back of the cage, so Sam was huddled in his own arms, hands under his armpits. Bobby was grunting every few minutes, shoulders jumping. He was probably trying very hard not to fall asleep before they got there.  
Dean had been asleep for a good few hours now, and Sam didn’t blame him. He’d checked back a couple of times, every glance showing him Dean, curled around the sleeping Castiel. Castiel hadn’t moved an inch, and were it not for the fact that Dean would know straight off, Sam almost thought he looked dead. He didn’t look like he’d be waking up any time soon, anyway.  
Sam thought about how grateful he was for what Castiel had done. He’d literally set his mortal life on the line, just so that Sam could live to have a brother, so Dean could have his family. It was nothing but selfless.  
Sam pulled Castiel’s Grace vial from his pocket. It was so close to empty. Bobby looked at it too, and their eyes met. They said nothing aloud, so as not to wake the others. But they both knew it: Castiel was still in mortal peril - _im_ mortal, even.  
One tiny burst of magic more, and he would be forced to live as an endless being. Cursed to be without Dean, forever this time. And from what anyone here could see, it was unstoppable.  
The vial was beautiful, even more so than Sam had imagined the other bottles. It was round like a ball, glass-topped cork at the head, with deep grooves down its sides, all the way around. The grooves were pleasant to touch, Sam’s thumb dipping between each of them. They were exactly the same as the grooves Castiel had set into the ring he’d made for Dean, Sam realised. He carefully returned the vial to his pocket, and smoothed his hand over it through the cloth.  
“Nearly there,” Bobby muttered, nodding to the line of smoke in the sky from the village ahead. Only the stars lit the way, and they didn’t even have Castiel’s floating orbs to illuminate their path. They trusted Gabriel’s judgement alone, and he was careful as he led the whole cart, Crowley beside him, and the horses following. The path turned from dirt to damp sand, and eventually to half-buried cobblestones.  
They travelled the streets of the village in silence, which was only broken by the clopping of the horses’ hooves. Then Sam leaned back and tapped the bars of the cage, creating a metallic clanging noise that made Dean sniff sharply, head rising from Castiel’s side.  
“Mh?”  
“We’re at the Roadhouse. You need help carrying Cas?”  
“Mh. No, ‘m fine.”  
The lights were all off, not even a fire going downstairs. Sam had expected at least Bela to be awake, she always found more customers at night.  
“You guys go to the stables,” Sam whispered to Bobby. “I’ll go get someone up.”  
“You ain’t got a key?”  
Sam snorted. “I lost that years ago.” He leapt off the cart seat and stayed in the street as Bobby turned the wagon around the corner.  
Sam took a pebble in hand and located Jo’s window, one of two that overhung the street. He launched it in a soft arc, and it tapped perfectly on one pane of glass.  
He waited, but nothing happened. He took another pebble and repeated his swing, harder this time.  
“Oh come on,” Sam grumbled. “There’s no way you didn’t hear that.”  
He frowned and took a slightly larger pebble. This one broke the window, and he winced.  
“Oh, crap―”  
“Sam bloody Winchester, what do you think you are doing?”  
Sam shrugged, looking up into Ellen’s sour face as she leaned out of the now-open window, hair loose and nightshirt glowing pale in the dark. “Uh, thought you might use some company? I got, uh, three men - no, four - me as well. And four horses.”  
Ellen sighed heavily, Jo coming up behind her, rubbing her eyes and yawning.  
“Sam!” Jo shouted as she saw him, pushing her mother aside. Her voice was far too loud for the time of night. “Mom, come on, let them in―”  
Jo gasped as she saw Dean rounding the corner with Castiel in his arms, Castiel’s arms around Dean’s neck and his face buried in his throat.  
“Mom, don’t be an ass, look at them!”  
Ellen stared at Dean, who half-grinned, trying to please.  
“No funny business, all right?” Ellen snapped, then turned around and headed back inside.  
Jo leaned further out of the window, waving. “She’s just grouchy ‘cause Margerie pinched all the batter before she’d cooked it.”  
“Oh my God, she made plum pudding?” Sam enthused, standing on tiptoes.  
Dean grunted, shifting under Castiel’s weight.  
“She made _half_ a plum pudding,” Jo said. “Tastes like Heaven.”  
“Would someone please hurry up and find me somewhere to put Cas?” Dean whispered, throat straining. “Sooner he wakes up the sooner I can taste _his_ Heaven, if you know what I me―”  
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam hissed. “There’s people here.”  
Dean grimaced. “You think I care?”  
Sam looked at Bobby, who was pulling hay off his sleeves, having fed and watered the horses very quickly.  
“You should care, Dean. You’d think after being driven out last time, you’d have learned something―”  
“All right, get in, get in,” Ellen grumbled, swinging the door open and ushering everyone inside. “Wipe your feet.”  
Dean turned Castiel sideways as he inched past Ellen, trying not to touch her. He nodded a greeting, then wobbled his way to the middle of the hall, Castiel’s bare foot hitting a chair.  
Dean grunted again, not able to see. He was rocking Castiel’s weight around, and Castiel murmured uncomfortably, pulling himself closer to Dean.  
Ellen picked up a candle and lit it with a second one, scowling at Dean. He swallowed and looked back, and Sam knew it would be over in minute, they just had to wait for Ellen’s residual pissed-off-ness to subside.  
And, there it was: Ellen’s shoulders slumped, and she managed a smile. “You boys need a drink?”  
Every man sighed in relief, Dean’s knees almost buckling.  
“Uh, if it ain’t too much trouble, can I get a bed for Cas?” Dean looked at Ellen with a pleading expression, trying to keep his gaze on her but finding it dropping to the sleeping Castiel every few seconds.  
“Sure, hon,” Ellen nodded, sweeping a hand to motion Dean upstairs.  
Sam followed, taking the liberty of pointing Bobby to the bar, telling him to help himself.  
The stairs were at the side of the room, and they climbed right past the ceiling, onto the next floor. Sam heard running footsteps approaching before they got to the top, and a second later, Jo was in their path, panting and smiling.  
“Bela’s up now, I’m gonna go light the fire. Oh my God, we’re gonna have a party.”  
“We sure as hell are _not_ ,” Ellen disagreed, pushing Jo aside as they went around a corner towards a free room.  
“But _Mom_ , it’s Dean! And his... guy. The bird man.”  
Sam grinned and hugged Jo as they crossed paths, then they both followed Dean’s grunting figure as he shuffled Castiel into the room.  
Ellen lit the candles as Castiel was lowered onto the bed, Dean’s knees shaking. He leaned over him and rested his fists either side of Castiel’s hips, panting.  
“Look at that sleepin’ beauty,” Ellen said, tilting her head. “Not sayin’ I approve, Dean, but as far as men go, you got yourself a darn pretty-lookin’ one.”  
Dean grinned at her, then leaned to kiss Castiel on the lips.  
Ellen froze, and Sam watched her as Jo watched Dean.  
Ellen did not look happy at all, and her eyes scoured her almost-son as he stroked a hand down Castiel’s face. Dean then pulled away, sighing.  
“He’ll wake up soon,” Sam assured him, nodding as Dean stood up. “Give him a little while. How long does it usually take angels, a day? He’ll be fine.”  
“What if he gets hungry?” Dean asked, looking between Sam and Castiel. “I can’t feed him like this.”  
“The hell happened to him?” Ellen asked, curiosity getting the better of her, despite her discomfort.  
Sam licked his lips and watched Dean slump down at the foot of the bed, dragging a blanket over Castiel. “He saved my life,” Sam said, and looked directly at Ellen as he took his shawl off, revealing the ripped, bloody shirt underneath.  
Ellen gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Jo peered around Sam to look, and also squeaked in alarm.  
“That’s... your blood?”  
“Priestess thought I’d be better dead. Castiel disagreed.”  
Dean smiled at Castiel and Sam proudly, then stood up, taking Sam by the arm and guiding him back into the hallway.  
Ellen and Jo followed, and Dean leaned back into the room to take another look at Castiel before closing the door. He bit his lip, then looked to the others. “I’m just real glad to have everyone alive. Ellen, I know you ain’t good with this whole... dude thing. All right, I get it. But please, when he wakes up... be nice to him. He’s awesome, you’ll love him.”  
Sam grinned at Dean and said, “They already met him. He showed up naked in a hall full of people.”  
Dean started, gaping at the women who smirked at him. Ellen made her way downstairs first, calling back, “When I said that boy’s pretty, it ain’t just his face I’m talkin’ about.”  
Dean whacked Sam on the arm, smiling, and Sam rolled his eyes.  
They all congregated beside the bar, where Ellen started to pour rounds. Bobby was already halfway down a mug, and Ellen shoved a honey mead to Sam before handing Dean an ale. Dean raised his mug in a toast to her before he drank, and Sam could see he was winning Ellen over.  
She wasn’t happy, it was true - but she still loved Dean, and it was one of those no-matter-what things. So if Dean was going to have a man as a lover? She had no choice but to be cool with that, even if it took her some time.  
But time... might not be all they had. Sam quietened as conversation started up, Dean telling brief recaps of how they’d defeated Meg (sans kissing, Sam noted).  
All that Sam could think about now, was the bottle in his pocket. What if Castiel was left alone forever? What then?  
Bobby had told Sam what Dean had asked him to do that morning. Dean had been right, in begging Bobby to kill Castiel if Dean died. But now he was no longer a hawk... he had no way to die. As soon as Castiel woke up, they could have as little as minutes, maybe hours, before that last speck of magic was gone.  
Sam sighed quietly, but forced the thoughts from his mind for now. Until Castiel woke up, this wasn’t a problem.  
The others were happy, so he grinned and ordered another round of mead, laughing and sharing stories. Bela joined them, fully-dressed, in what Sam recalled was the dress she wore to seduce the wealthiest of travellers. Was she hoping Dean would pay for her services tonight? Sam snorted and waited for the big reveal, because it was bound to be hilarious.  
Bobby and Ellen were in their own conversation now, but Sam was sitting at the other end of the bar, close enough to hear Bela and Dean. This was where he’d seen himself, the night he dragged Death’s ring from the pool. Not seeing a tiny fishpond behind the bar was somewhat disorienting.  
“So...” Bela trailed a finger up Dean’s arm, crinkling his sleeve. Sam smirked. “Where’s that nice bird of yours, Mister Winchester?” Bela asked, tilting her head and dragging her hair on the bar.  
“Um, he’s upstairs,” Dean said. “He’s asleep.”  
Bela smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “So since he’s not here... he won’t mind if I talk to you?”  
“Talk? Guess not.”  
Bela looked at Sam and winked. Sam bugged his eyes at her, trying to get her to take a hint, but Bela was Bela. If she thought Dean looked rich, she was going to flirt her ass off. And apparently, Bela’s calculations meant handsome equals rich. Dean was grubby and sweaty and slightly sticky with blood, but even Sam could see he had a well-proportioned face.  
“So, I have a question,” Bela continued, fingertip running up Dean’s inner wrist as he held his mug of ale.  
“Uh, shoot.”  
Bela began twirling her hair between her fingers. “If I took all my clothes off, how would you―”  
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Bela,” Sam hissed, grabbing Bela by the shoulder and turning her. She glared daggers at him. “He’s taken.”  
Dean chuckled. “No, it’s all right, Sammy,” he said, pursing his lips. “Give her a chance.”  
Sam frowned and tried to say something else, but rolled his eyes and gave up.  
Bela squinted at Dean. “You’re married?”  
Dean licked his lips. “Not exactly.”  
“Girlfriend. Oh, I knew it, nobody’s that handsome and doesn’t already have a girl.” She was touching his cheek, somehow still going with this. Oh, Bela. She would stop at nothing.  
Sam would have thought that would be the end of it, Dean giving up and letting Bela think he had a girl. But he swallowed a gulp of ale and said to Bela, “Not a girlfriend, actually. Or a wife. Or... any girl.”  
Bela looked at Sam, confused. Sam forced a smile and had some more mead.  
“So in what way are you taken? Oh, did you lose somebody?” Her tone changed entirely, sympathy laden on her question. “Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.”  
“Not like that. I’m... No, I have a... partner.”  
Bela squinted. “Business kind?”  
Dean swallowed the last of his ale and thunked his mug on the bar. “No. Lover.”  
“A mistress?”  
Dean shook his head.  
Bela sighed and sat on a barstool, looking very much like she felt like she was being led on. “Let me get this straight - you have a lover... but she’s _not_ a girl?”  
Dean nodded sternly. “You’ll get it eventually. It ain’t difficult.”  
Sam snorted. “It is when you’re part of a society of people who only get boy-meets-girl, Dean.”  
“Eh,” Dean said, “I’d better get used to this, I’m gonna be repeating this conversation all my life.”  
“Look, I’m sorry,” Bela said softly, hand touching Dean’s hair as she pulled herself up to sit on the bar. Her legs dangled below, and Jo came to put her hands on Bela’s knees as Bela relentlessly stared at Dean, eyelids fluttering.  
“I don’t think I understand,” Bela sighed.   
Jo glanced to Sam.”What don’t she get?”  
Sam quirked a grin. “Just watch, I think Dean’s getting there in a second.”  
Dean glared at Sam, then shrugged. “Lady - Bela, is it? Uh-huh. Well, um, you see...” Dean wiped the back of his mouth with a hand. “I’ve never actually told anyone this before, not like this.”  
“Go Dean, whoo!” Sam muttered under his breath, and Jo began chanting “Go-Dean-go-Dean!”, tapping her palms on Bela’s knees.  
Dean licked his lip and then bit it, then sighed and swayed on his chair. “Look, the bird upstairs? Cas. He’s not a bird any more.”  
“Wait, _that_ was what that was about?” Bela said in awe. “Last time you were here, there was some story about your weirdo bird turning into a man. And then suddenly we had this really hot guy out of nowhere and―” Bela gasped. “Oh... oh my God, he’s your lover?”  
Dean grinned awkwardly. “Y... yeah.”  
Bela gaped, then frowned, then withdrew her hand from Dean’s wrist, squeaking. “Ew, that is really weird.”  
Dean tried to gulp, but instead just closed his eyes and stood up, hands in fists. “Yeah. It is a bit. But... You know what? Don’t care.”  
Ellen and Bobby were looking at him now, Dean standing by himself while everyone else sat.  
“Cas and I are a thing, a really serious thing. And everyone better get used to it, because it ain’t about to change. Yeah, he’s a dude, and I’m a dude, but that kind’a thing shouldn’t be a big deal. Screw what the Bible says, I met some God-fearing people who weren’t even close to being good together. People hurt each other, they get married and it sucks, bigtime. Me ‘n Cas... we’re good together. We love right.” Dean patted his heart with a curled hand. “If me ‘n Cas are wrong... If this is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.”  
He looked at every person at the bar, then shook his head and walked off, heading for the stairs.  
Sam watched him go, sighing.  
“Wow-ee,” Bela said. “That’s some heartfelt poetry right there.”  
“Shuddup, Bela,” Sam said, half-grinning. “They are seriously good together, you should see them next to each other when they’re both awake. They look stupidly happy.”  
“I saw Dean carrying the bird man in his arms,” Jo whispered to Bela. “Feel like I’ve seen it all, now.”  
Sam snorted. “Oh, you haven’t seen it all until you’ve seen fifty ghosts running you down all at once,” he said, offhandedly. He grinned at the sudden looks that swivelled his way, already set to tell the story.  
~  
Sam sighed and trudged up the stairs, candleholder in hand. Of course he’d be the first one to bed. Even Bobby wanted to stay up and talk to Ellen. Jo and Bela wouldn’t stop jabbering, like always. Sam’s ghost story had only fuelled the fires of their conversation.  
Sam rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. It must be gone five in the morning now. He yawned and tried to remember which door led to the room Ellen said Dean was hiding in. He and Dean were sharing a room tonight, since somebody had to keep an eye on Dean and stop him from sneaking to check on Castiel every ten minutes.  
Sam’s hand found the ring handle to their room, and guessing Dean would be asleep already, didn’t bother knocking.  
Well, that was a mistake.  
Dean was lying on the bed right in front of the door, completely naked, with his manhood in hand and his legs apart... His other hand was inside himself, fingers clamped as they pressed into him. He was whimpering and wriggling, his skin was flushed, and his mouth gasped―  
“Sam, _get out!_ ”  
“You think you need to _tell_ me?!” Sam screeched, running out and slamming the door. He clamped a hand across his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.  
Oh, Lord. He was never getting that out of his head.  
~  
Dean settled back down as Sam left, too involved to break his concentration.  
He bit hard on his lip, trying to withhold a moan. He twisted his fingers again and his mouth fell open in a gasp, heat bursting through him. He felt like he was radiating heat, pulsing all over as his member throbbed. He couldn’t even move his hand over himself, he was too distracted by his fingers.  
He’d managed three-and-a-half before he had to pull one out, too much for him. The burn he felt wasn’t translating as pain, but pleasure, and should he add another finger, he was sure he’d come right there and then, and he didn’t want it to be over so quickly.  
As soon as Castiel woke up, they could do this together. It could be his fingers here. Cas’ fingers... pressing like this―  
“ _Oohuh_ ―”  
―slipping back and forth, slick and oily and wet, rubbing, _rubbing_ ―  
“Eeoouuh, mm... mmm, mmhhh - oh God, oh God, fuck... oh _fuck_ yes―”  
He lifted his hips off the covers of the bed, toes curling into the mattress. He gulped hard, then started gasping again, trying to press his hand deeper inside, knuckles skimming the very edge of his hole. He turned his cheek sideways into the pillow, eyes half-shut.  
“J-Jesus... _uh_ \- oh yeah right there, mm.” He gasped loudly into his pillow, muscles straining as he twisted, one foot resting against the stone wall, the other one splayed across the bed, hanging over the floor. He threw caution to the wind and pushed another finger in, eyes rolling back as he tensed all over, muscles sucking his hand back and forth as he strained and relaxed.  
“Ohho-huh, _God_ yes―”  
He loved how full this made him. He’d lost track of the amount of times he’d done this over the past years; it was always this good. After time and time again of never doing more than moaning, he found by some experimenting that he was holding back a barrage of curses, of desperate words and pleading to nobody but himself. It was crazy, but he loved to tease himself with words. It was like his lover was his own self. He could play the part of Castiel _and_ Dean, all at once.  
“Come in me, come in me,” he whispered, pressing his fingers so deep that his hand’s third knuckles were pushing into his ass, unable to reach further. “Shit, yes, yes―” He bucked into his fingers, over and over, legs curled up tight with his hand reached between them, bent at the wrist.  
“Fucking - fuck - more―” He shoved his little finger inside, gasping loudly as it entered cold, a tingle of excitement and sensation rushing Dean’s lower half, making his buttocks tense.  
Dean whimpered, rubbing the groove of his parted legs on one of his ankles, rose-scented oil slick on his skin.  
He needed to come already - no matter how long he wanted to keep going with this, he was exhausted, and he ached all over, and his hands were tired and sore. Plus, Sam was waiting outside and Dean still had to clean up before he could let him in.  
Dean bit his lip, squeezing the base of his cock with his other hand. His palm was sweating, and he’d leaked pre-come over his abdomen for so long that some had dried. Dean swallowed and looked at the ceiling, at the wooden beams overhead.  
“Fuck it,” he whispered, and took his unslicked hand and set it between his legs, pushing his thick middle finger inside with his other hand.  
“Oh- shit, oh, shit, oh, SHHHH OH GOD CAS―”  
He had to pull both hands out straight away, the burn definitely turning to pain now - but hell, that had to be worth it. Semen painted his chest in a line, still hot on his cheek; it had reached its furthest point when it hit his face.  
Dean chuckled and shivered, limbs aching heavily. He splayed out on the bed, breathing like a galloping horse.  
“Wish you’d been awake for that, Cas,” he huffed, eyes closing. “Best ever, I think.” He grinned. “Prob’ly ‘cause you’re back. I’m happy.”  
He laughed quietly and forced himself to get to his feet, trudging to the fire and lifting the pot of warm water from the side. He stepped into the tub and started washing himself down for the second time that night, sighing with relief as the heat soothed every ache that pained him. All the tiny cuts from his showdown with Raphael seemed to wash away entirely.  
He tried not to moan as he washed between his legs, but hey, he’d already screamed the place down, one more moan couldn’t do much harm.  
“Mmmuuuuhh,” he breathed, eyes closing as he let his head fall back. “Cas, I wish you knew h-how much I love being fucked there. It’s a lot. Jesus, it’s so good.”  
“Dean, are you done?” Sam said from the door, knocking gently. “I’m kinda falling asleep here.” He did indeed sound very tired.  
“One minute, Sammy,” Dean replied, setting the water kettle down and going for some clean clothes. These had to be some of Sam’s things, they looked to be exactly his size. Plus... yeah, they kind of smelled like him. Hm, grey didn’t really suit Dean. He’d be wanting his black stuff back as soon as possible.  
He shook his hair dry and went for the door, hand still scrubbing water droplets from his head.  
“Eugh,” Sam muttered, stalking right past Dean. “You are disgusting.”  
“So I’ve been told,” Dean said bitterly, sitting on the end of the bed. Sam took the other one, throwing his boots off and burying himself under covers.  
“Hey, Sam?” Dean said, still smelling sweet oil on his hands. He cleared his throat and wiped it on his trousers.  
“What,” Sam said, monotone.  
“About today.”  
“Ugh, couldn’t we do this tomorrow?”  
Dean licked his lips. “Y-yeah, I guess.” He sighed and turned to his bed, slipping under the blanket. He didn’t blow the candles out yet. A few minutes of silence passed, Dean just staring at the back of Sam’s head as they lay there. Sam wasn’t asleep.  
“Dean,” Sam said, and Dean sat up straight away.  
“Yeah.”  
“What did you want to say?” Sam sat up too, resting his back against the wall and looking across the room to his brother.  
Dean sighed, staring at his feet tenting the blanket. “So... my sword. Sabbath.”  
“Yeah, not lost in the ice.”  
“You lied.”  
“Yep.”  
“To... get me to the city a day later. You still meant for me to kill Meg with it.”  
“Yep.”  
Dean was quiet for a long time. “Thanks.”  
“Welcome.”  
Dean nodded. “And―” he glanced to Sam, who was sitting patiently. He would answer questions until he fell asleep, Dean discerned. “And, Sam?”  
“Hm?”  
“When Cas wakes up, and stuff... what are you going to do? Big picture.”  
Sam stared for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ve still got a debt to pay back to Ellen. Owe this tavern a ton of money. Can’t fix that if I’m off travelling, so I guess I’m staying here.”  
Dean nodded slowly. “But... you want to travel.”  
Sam eyed him, blinking heavily as sleep tried to take him. “Yeah, Dean. I want to travel. I want to see all the crap you and Cas want to see. Same crap. Same adventures.”  
“You want to come with us?”  
“No, I don’t mean that, that’s your thing; I can’t intrude on that. I just mean, I want the same things. I kinda decided that on the way out today. I want to see the world, like a neverending road trip. Take a horse, a purse of money, just go wherever the road takes me.”  
Dean bumped his lip in approval. “Sounds like fun.”  
Sam smiled. “Yeah.”  
Dean sighed, wrapping his arms around his knees, blanket scrunching in his lap.  
“Dean?”  
“Mm?”  
Sam licked his lips. “There’s something I need to tell you.”  
“If you and Gabriel are gonna get together, you totally have my blessing.”  
“Wha- ew, no! God, Dean, what is wrong with you?”  
Dean grinned.  
“About last night. When we were at Limn’mere. We all saw something, Bobby and Cas and me.”  
Dean sat up straighter, giving Sam his full attention.  
“So you know there’s ghosts, right?”  
“Yeah.”  
“We found...” Sam pulled in a shaky breath, before saying, “Dean, we found Mom and Dad.”  
“Wh...”  
“They’re gone now, they went into Death’s ring and he took them... They’re safe now. In Heaven, I guess. They were all trapped there, the ghosts from the Reaper Massacres.”  
Dean stared, putting puzzle pieces together. “Meg used... those were the souls. That she used. Bobby told me earlier. She used the souls, to trap Death, used Death to get angels fallen, so she could have Cas’ Grace.”  
Sam frowned. “So... in a round-about way, she killed Mom and Dad so you could be with Cas?”  
Dean’s emotions flickered and twisted, and he coughed out a sigh. “Yeah, I... I guess. Shit, that’s fucked up.”  
“Mom and Dad gave me a message. For you.”  
“What? What did they say?” Dean was half-out of bed now, hands clutching the blankets as one foot touched the floor.  
“That they’re proud of you.” Sam grinned. “For having Cas, and for growing up awesome.”  
Dean gasped, then sighed, then his mouth wobbled into a smile, eyes shining. “That’s awesome,” he breathed.  
Sam nodded. “Mom’s real pretty, she’s blonde, about up to my shoulders―”  
“You kinda move like her,” Dean grinned. “Damn, I knew you reminded me of someone, I never - haha, I never realised until just now. Sammy, you’re like Mom.”  
Sam touched his own face, smiling. “You look like Dad. He looks like an older you. You’re―” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “I told Dad... I told him you looked more baby-faced than him.”  
Dean was laughing, a hand on his stomach. “Jeez, Sammy, that’s as bad as ‘pretty-boy’.”  
“Well you are,” Sam grinned, eyes half-closed as they chuckled together. “You’re ridiculously good-looking, I don’t know why I look nothing like you.”  
“I look more like Cas than I look like you,” Dean shrugged. “You’re freakishly tall.”  
“You’re just short.”  
“I’m not short, you’re short.”  
Sam snorted out loud and laughed into his hands. “Wow, you really do say stupid things when you’re tired.”  
“Yeah - man, I’m pooped. I’m just - I’m running on some high, from Cas, or something. I haven’t slept right in weeks. Years, even, but... these past few weeks, been hell.”  
“You know I’ve known you... uh, eight days.” Sam patted his knees in an uneven rhythm, smiling at Dean. “Weird how quick you got to be a brother.”  
Dean bumped his eyebrows. “In total, I only knew Cas two weeks. A day more than that, actually.” He grinned into his bent knees, trying to quiet his mirthful laugh. “What’s amazing is how quick people get to be what they’re meant to be. You, my brother, Cas, my... whatever. It’s like _that_.” He clicked his fingers.  
Sam smirked. “About people being what they’re meant to be,” he said, “Cas told me I had a destiny. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.”  
“Like, the Sam-and-Dean destiny?”  
Sam shook his head. “He said I had magic.”  
Dean guffawed. Then the laughter died out when Sam didn’t join in. Dean turned his head to look at Sam carefully. “Do you?”  
Sam shrugged exaggeratedly. “I’m pretty sure he was just lying so I would be motivated to find Death’s ring, but... hey, who knows?”  
Dean blinked, and Sam stared.  
“We should get some sleep,” Sam said, quietly. Dean waited until Sam broke eye contact before nodding, blowing out the candles and lying down.  
“Cas better wake up tomorrow,” Sam sighed. “Don’t think I could take another moment of you doing gross naked things with yourself.”  
Dean chuckled into his pillow. “‘Night, Sammy.”  
“‘Night, Dean.”  
~  
The world was a haze.  
Castiel blinked and mumbled, then slapped his own face.  
“Nh.”  
This was a strange feeling. He’d slept before, of course, but he’d never woken up feeling like this.  
There was something bright edging at his vision, white and uncomfortable. He screwed up his eyes and tried to get away from it; it felt intrusive.  
The blankets were warm... These were real blankets. He was in a bed.  
“Dean?” Castiel opened his eyes fully. Beds meant Dean.  
He threw the covers off, heartbeat thumping in his neck. The curse. The curse was broken.  
“Dean, where are y―”  
Castiel was in a room, a room inside a building. With a gasp, he turned to see a window behind him, with _sunlight_ pouring through it. It was cold and bleak and wintry, but it was a miracle that Castiel could even see it.  
He fell out of bed and scrambled to the window, ignoring the way his feet dragged and his legs hit together as he wobbled. He was naked from the waist down, he noticed, but he reached the window and nothing else mattered.  
There was a street below, with horses and people passing by. Castiel put a hand over his mouth and laughed out loud - then grunted uncomfortably. His hand was covered in blood. Day-old blood, scuffed and dirtied, only half-wiped by someone else’s hands. Castiel looked down at himself: the blue shirt he wore was the same one he’d been handed when they were at the Roadhouse, gifted by Ellen.  
Castiel slotted information together and leaned to see out of the window again, wincing when he bumped his head on the glass, but he’d seen enough. They were at the Roadhouse again, and this was a room in the tavern.  
Castiel turned around, looking at the whole room. It was like a stone box: only five paces wide each way, a single bed in the centre with its head to the window. The sheets were brown, faded natural linen folded over the top. All of the walls were a beige stone, smooth to the touch; Castiel withdrew his hand, examining his fingers again. He needed to bathe.  
The fireplace on the right was bathing the whole room with heat, but it had been a while since it had been re-piled with logs; it was mostly burned down to nothing, only the embers simmering in the ash at the bottom.  
He took hold of the copper pot of water by the side; it was hot, and he immediately let go again. Wrapping the handle in his shirtsleeve, he lifted it. It was warm to the touch now. He carried the whole thing to the empty wooden tub in the corner, climbing in and setting the kettle down for a moment to take his shirt off.  
His shoulder was still sore, the arrowhead’s injury still not fully healed. Blood was still caked in the mess of scar tissue, as Castiel hadn’t been able to clean it properly before. He could do that now. He smiled as hot water splashed over him. It had been far too long. He gave in to temptation and let it just pour over his head, tipping his chin back and sighing as heat rushed over his face and down his body, trickling down numbing arms as he held the bucket up.  
He saved most of the water for a more careful wash, scrubbing his hands clean, and finally getting to wash his more intimate areas. He found soap. _Actual_ soap.  
When he and Dean travelled, they were going to take soap with them. And oil for personal use, and cooking utensils. Castiel never realised how important cooking utensils were until he had to cook his own food.  
Castiel stepped out of the tub, humming a happy note. He felt so _clean_. He bit his lip and stood there, closing his eyes, just savouring how it felt.  
He found the fresh clothes that were piled on a chair, along with a raggedy towel. After scrubbing himself dry, he hung the towel around his neck as he examined the clothes. This shirt was old. It was blue. It was exactly his size.  
He recognised this shirt. It was the one he’d coloured blue the day he and Dean had met. After all these years, somehow Dean still had it. He’d kept it. Castiel had seen it in Dean’s saddlebags over the years, but it seemed so much more significant now. He’d not worn it since they were separated, and Dean clearly meant for him to wear it now.  
He pulled the shirt on, followed by the brown trousers with - he was pleased to find - two pockets, one on each side. He loved pockets. He liked putting things he found in them, little things. Rocks, shells, interestingly shaped twigs. Occasionally, a dead insect. Less than occasionally, a live one.  
Castiel buttoned his trousers. Whoever left out the clothes had not left any undergarments. Sensible, as he would have ignored them.  
He eyed the door, wondering who else was here at the tavern.  
Taking a deep breath, Castiel left the room, bare feet dragging on the floorboards as he rounded the corner. His hands didn’t leave the wall as he followed the sound of voices.  
Voices.  
Human voices. Laughter, friendly jibes. A moment of silence and then another round of laughter. A whoop - that was Sam - enthusiastic clapping...  
Castiel smiled, elated by the thought of company. It wasn’t just Sam, and Bobby, and probably - hopefully - Dean... If they were at the Roadhouse, there would be Jo and Bela, whom Castiel had only met before in passing. Ellen, as well.  
It was family. Family awaited Castiel downstairs. Castiel had never had a family before.  
He paused at the top of the stairs. From the level of his feet, the way down was unobstructed on the left, and the wall on his right followed the stairs to the floorboards below. He could see the tavern’s hall, lit by a crackling, wide open fire. The heat from it was wafting up here, and Castiel felt carried by it, taking the first step down.  
There were other voices too, everyone just beyond the shelter of the wall. Castiel heard Dean’s voice say a few indistinguishable words, and his heart hammered, face breaking into a grin. He couldn’t step any further, wanting only to listen.  
Oh, a woman’s voice. That wasn’t anyone from the Roadhouse. That was Missouri. _Missouri was here_.  
Castiel sat on the top step and hugged his knees, listening with his mouth pressed to his trousers, trying subdue his smile.  
He closed his eyes, looking from side-to-side under his eyelids as he studied the voices he heard, trying to separate them all. It was near impossible for a few minutes, realising there could be close to twenty people here.  
Dean, Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Bela, Missouri... Cupid!  
Castiel gasped and his eyes flew wide, biting the cloth of his trousers as he held in a happy squeak.  
He forced himself to concentrate, and only a moment later, he determined that Chuck was also present, the whole room falling silent every time he spoke, then the calls and chatter started up again right after. Castiel wondered how soon he would stop drinking, true to his word, when he learned that Castiel had mastered the art of sarcasm.  
Gabriel seemed to be there, possibly inside the room, maybe at a window. Castiel hoped Lucifer was here too. This joining of all their old friends, and new friends... Castiel wanted everyone to be here. To have one of his brothers miss this moment would be terrible.  
After another five minutes, Castiel had pulled Pamela’s voice from the jumble, as well as Charlie’s - although she sounded older. As she never went anywhere without Rat, Castiel hazarded a guess that he was here too.  
There were other voices that Castiel knew were familiar, but couldn’t place. He could only bear it for a few minutes more before breaking apart his huddled legs, standing up, and taking another step down.  
Another, then another. Soon his legs could feel the warmth of the room, and the glow of the fire was changing the colour of his shirt as he stepped down into its light.  
The chatter and conversation lulled as he went down the final stair. He could see everyone now.  
Dean was the last to turn, still chattering away when Jody tapped him on the shoulder. Dean turned to see what she wanted, and the spoon that was stuck to his nose fell to the floor with a clatter.  
Dean looked at Castiel, open-mouthed. Castiel smiled.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
“Cas.”  
Castiel didn’t move, but Dean stood up from his bar stool, clutching Sam’s shoulder for support. He was in the midst of so many people, and Castiel knew all of their faces. Dean left the huddle, walking slowly across the room. Castiel stepped forward, moving faster and going to meet him halfway. They were in view of everyone when they took each other’s hands.  
Dean’s eyes were on Castiel’s shivering fingers as they twined together, and his gaze travelled up, up Castiel’s arms, where his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, then up to his shoulders, where his pulse was pounding steadily in his neck. Then to Castiel’s lips, where he kissed him.  
As they pulled away, they both breathed a laugh, hearing the silence of the room as everyone only sat and watched. Castiel had never seen such an astounding green as the colour he saw in Dean’s eyes at this moment.  
Dean was bursting with energy and raw spiritual force. It glowed in him from the inside out, and Castiel sighed as he looked at it. All he saw was Dean. That soul of his. It had grown since Castiel had last seen him. It was less of an encapsulated idea now, than a whole aura.  
“Dean, your soul...” Castiel said, dropping his gaze to Dean’s eyes again. “How are you so beautiful?”  
Dean’s smile flickered wider, and he lowered his head a tiny bit, somehow humbled. “Could say the same for you,” he muttered, thumb stroking the inside of Castiel’s wrist. “You got older, but God, you got handsome,” he grinned, one hand leaping to lock behind Castiel’s head and pull him in for another kiss.  
Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, and both of his hands flew to card in Dean’s hair, head tilting as their kiss twisted, hard and needy. Castiel moaned as Dean sighed.  
Someone in the audience whistled a pair of suggestive notes, and Ellen snorted, “Ugh, get a room.”  
Dean and Castiel broke the kiss to look at her.  
She set down the mug she was holding, suddenly startled by the amount of people who were staring at her and grinning. “What... no, that wasn’t what I―”  
Dean smirked, open-mouthed, and looked Castiel up and down. Castiel stared back at his lips, then deep into his eyes.  
“You wanna?” Dean whispered.  
Castiel only nodded.  
Dean snatched his hand in his own and tugged him along, heading for the stairs.  
“NO, hey, come back, you goddamn―” Ellen cried, to the sound of everyone else’s laughter.  
Dean laughed all the way up the stairs, hopping up each of them with a bounce. Castiel followed without being dragged, his excitement building.  
When Dean reached the top of the stairs, he pulled Castiel into his arms, hugging him tightly - it lasted a split second, then Castiel was slammed into the wall, kissed passionately. He kissed back, his mouth gasping over Dean’s, fingers running again and again through Dean’s hair.  
“Your - your hair is shorter,” Castiel breathed, licking his own lips, and in the process, Dean’s too.  
Dean laughed gently, huffing hard over Castiel as he undid both their trousers with one hand. “That scar actually makes you kiss better.”  
“No, that is from practise,” Castiel smiled. “I believe I have kissed my own hand far more times than I ever kissed you.”  
Dean bit Castiel’s lip, dragging it down as he ran it into a kiss. “Lucky hand.”  
Dean hauled them both down the hallway, but Castiel grabbed his shirt and veered him off course - they were going to Castiel’s room now. He shoved the door open with his eyes still on Dean, and Dean threw them both inside and kicked the door shut behind him.  
Castiel could feel the buzz of lust between them, and it was intoxicating. Dean smelt like sex, like desperate, passionate, and messy sex. Castiel lowered his head, eyes on Dean as he _gazed_.  
Dean was squaring his shoulders, staring Castiel down from a foot away. Both of their trousers were undone, and Dean’s eyes flicked to Castiel’s erection, then returned to his face.  
“You know, we were kind of in the middle of something.”  
“Five-and-a-half years ago, we left a session of oral indulgence unfinished. I remember.”  
Dean licked his lips and swallowed. “Couple’a days before then, we agreed on somethin’.”  
“I remember that too. The next time we fuck...”  
Dean pushed into Castiel’s space, hips against hips, members caught between their bodies. Dean reached his hand to take Castiel’s palm and move it to Dean’s lower back. He slid it down, under the loose waistband of his trousers. Dean gasped against Castiel’s jaw as together their fingers brushed between Dean’s buttocks and against his hole.  
“...We fuck there.”  
Dean whimpered against Castiel’s neck. “I really, really want that, Cas,” he said, voice sinfully deep.  
Castiel’s eyelashes touched Dean’s cheek. “Lead me.”  
“Lead...?”  
“Show me how you want me to do it.”  
Dean nudged their foreheads together, licking his lips again. “Man, it’s like... it’s like we never left―”  
“But it’s also exactly like it’s been five years.”  
“Yeah.” Dean swallowed, kissing Castiel quickly. “I missed you.”  
Castiel nodded. “I know.”  
Dean chuckled, grabbing Castiel by the shirt and lifting his arms, pulling at the cloth until it came free and fell to the floor. Dean paused before moving on, eyes drifting to the scar tissue above Castiel’s heart.  
Dean’s fingertips brushed it, mouth open. “Did it hurt?”  
“Yes.”  
Dean gulped dryly. “Does it still hurt?”  
Castiel studied Dean’s face. He was worried about him. He didn’t want him to be in pain.  
“No,” Castiel said. Then, “Yes.”  
Dean looked at him, understanding. “I’m sorry.” He kissed Castiel again, breathing out against him.  
Castiel felt Dean’s hands dragging him to the bed, throwing him gently back against it. Dean fell on top of him, knees to either side.  
“Take my clothes off,” he whispered, and Castiel complied. He dragged his hands over Dean’s back, as toned as it had ever been. He was wearing green, but not a shade Castiel had ever seen him wear before. This one was dark, almost black. It appeared to make Dean’s skin glow even brighter.  
Dean’s shirt was tossed to the other side of the bed, and Castiel skimmed his hands down Dean’s chest, raking his nails over Dean’s nipples. Dean hissed, turning his head down to watch Castiel reverse the touch, backs of his nails bumping back over.  
“Trousers,” Dean said, rolling onto his back. His head was on the pillow that Castiel had slept on. Castiel leaned between Dean’s parted legs, hands grabbing the material and yanking it away, revealing bare skin, the top of Dean’s thighs rounded in a perfect ass, lined down the middle by a tiny trail of hair, balls rocking against his skin as Dean’s legs flopped back to the bed.  
Castiel frowned. “You’re... not hard,” he said, dismayed. Was this not as good as before?  
Dean looked down between his legs, erection only half-formed. “I’m older, Cas. Stuff ain’t gonna work as quick as years ago.”  
Castiel sucked the inside of his lip, letting the trousers fall heavily to the floor.  
Dean smirked, guiding one of Castiel’s hands to touch him. “But it’s okay, Cas. This way, you get to _make_ me hard.”  
Castiel’s hand moved on Dean’s cock the way he remembered Dean liking. Dean’s face flushed and he gasped, head falling back against the pillow.  
“Oh, mm―” he muttered, a hand reaching blindly to grasp at Castiel’s hair. “No girl ever did that like you do, Cas,” he breathed. His legs were parting wider, and Castiel slid his other hand to press into the flesh of Dean’s inner thigh. “Ouuuh,” Dean said.  
It wasn’t moaning, it wasn’t words. Dean had never made sounds like that before. Castiel liked it.  
He sighed and lowered his mouth to Dean’s throat, suckling gently. Dean swallowed against him, and Castiel tried to chase the movement with his lips, ending with a flustered breath against Dean’s clavicle, the glass teardrop glowing at the fog of his breath.  
Dean’s hands wandered to Castiel’s hips, then smoothed over his buttocks. Castiel rocked into the touch, eyes meeting Dean’s.  
“You’re hard now,” Castiel informed him, and Dean smirked.  
“Yeah... yeah, I get that, Cas.”  
“I’m... gonna fuck you... now.”  
“Right.”  
Dean’s heart was racing under his skin, Castiel could see it thrumming in his neck. He was just as excited as Castiel was, just as desperate. Dean’s eyes were dark, and his skin was just as hot as Castiel’s own. Arousal was almost blinding in its intensity, but Castiel was forcing it down; he wanted - _needed_ \- this to last.  
Castiel stood up off the bed, slipping his trousers to the floor. Dean watched them fall, eyes roaming. Castiel paused for a moment, just soaking in the sight of Dean sprawled over the bed. Lips parted, fading finger marks across his chest; his flat, pale stomach, and a twist of hair darker than that on his head, that grew thicker as it went between his legs. His thighs were sleek and muscular, a little more so than Castiel recalled. His feet were perfect, even that one toe that always curved differently.  
Dean was still looking at Castiel when Castiel glanced back to his face. He blinked slowly, then their eyes met.  
Dean said nothing, only opened his legs further in invitation.  
“Wait,” Castiel said. “Where is that bottle of oil that you keep in your saddlebag?”  
Dean flashed a grin. “I _knew_ it was you pinching that, for ages I thought I was just using way more than I really was.”  
“I cannot do this to you without... aid.”  
Dean raised his arms over his head, biting his lower lip. “I think I used the last of it last night. I never opened myself that... wide... before.” His speech slowed as his arousal built, gasping his words. “God Cas, I need you―”  
Castiel had to stroke himself a few times, the urge to just go ahead and push right in far too great.  
“I need a liquid, I’ll hurt you.”  
Dean leaned up on his elbow. “Spit? Or, could you use mojo? Like... last time?” He paused, remembering something. “But...your mojo, the bottle’s almost empty. There’s almost nothing left.”  
Castiel’s eyelids fluttered. Dean swallowed. Castiel gritted his teeth and sank down between Dean’s legs, kneeling until Dean smirked.  
“You’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t you?” Dean whispered.  
Castiel nodded, once.  
“You’re a reckless son of a bitch, Cas.”  
Castiel took it as a compliment. Dean lay back and let Castiel press a single finger against him, both men sighing as it slicked itself with mojo and pushed inside.  
Dean moaned, long and low.  
“Oh, God, Cas, you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted you t- to - oh... ooouuuhhh...”  
Castiel rushed with pleasure at hearing Dean make those sounds again. “Make more noises,” he demanded, pressing his finger in all the way. It went easily, since Dean wasn’t tight like Castiel had been. The pressure and resistance was only from the small size of the hole.  
Dean bit his lip, eyes closed. “Ohh, yeah, right there. Make it wet, make it... mm.”  
Castiel shifted his legs, lowering his whole body over Dean while his finger was still inside him; he brushed his erection against Dean’s hip, trailing pre-come over the skin deliberately.  
Dean opened his eye a crack to watch, then smiled. “See you still like that.”  
“Do you still like that?”  
Dean nodded, gasping suddenly. “Yes - yeah, I like - fuck. More fingers. Two at once. Stretch m-... me... Shit. Shit, yes.” One of Dean’s hands was in his own hair, and he could barely control his own gasping. He moaned again, mouth wide open.  
“Cas, y-you got no idea how much I... _uuhhh_... I love this―”  
“I think... I think I can see. And hear. I’m glad you discovered this.”  
“Shuddup, I only―” he grunted, bucking Castiel’s second finger another knuckle deeper. “I only did this ‘cause me and you did it like this, and you loved it s- so much - aaah...”  
“I never enjoyed it nearly as much on my own, as I did when I did it with you,” Castiel whispered, lips on Dean’s ear. He dragged Dean’s earlobe between his teeth and nibbled it, then let it go and licked it.  
Dean sighed. “Put all your fingers inside me.”  
“I don’t want to hurt you.”  
Dean glared at him softly. “You’re not gonna hurt me, Cas.”  
Castiel’s eyes dropped to Dean’s lips, then his messy hair, then back to his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”  
“Ass.”  
“Butt.”  
Dean tilted his head, a grin forming. “Ass... butt?”  
“Assbutt.”  
Dean snorted, face quirking upward. Then his head fell back with a sudden bark of laughter, and Castiel couldn’t resist for even a second. He felt a rumble rip through his chest and he blurted out a low, sharp sound, laughter throbbing through his whole body. Dean giggled and clutched him tightly, both of them shivering and shaking together, laughing until they gasped for breath.  
Dean wheezed, the corners of his eyes so wrinkled that his cheeks looked strained. The colour in Castiel’s vision seemed twice as bright now, and Dean's eyes shone like never before.  
Laughter. Such a beautiful human reaction. Castiel loved it.  
Dean growled and took a final gasp of breath, before grabbing Castiel by the shoulder and ramming into him with a kiss. Their lips twisted and parted, surging with their breaths. Dean mouthed at Castiel gently, then sighed.  
“This ain’t rough enough,” he said.  
“Rough? Dean, I can’t hurt you―”  
“You can’t break me, Cas. I like it kinda messy. And where you get bruises ‘cause you fucked too hard, or―”  
“Dean, have you ever had a male sex organ inside you?” Castiel intoned.  
Dean licked his lips. “No?”  
“I will not fuck you ‘roughly’ until we have done this at least once.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “What, it hurt when you do it for real, or something?”  
Castiel nodded.  
“But... you told me you wouldn’t get hurt―”  
“If I asked you now whether these three fingers were hurting you, what would you say?”  
“No.”  
“And are you lying?”  
Dean blinked, then flicked his eyes to the window, sighing. “Yes.”  
Castiel kissed him, and kept on scissoring the fingers that were already inside.  
“But,” Dean continued. “I wanna feel it after. Like you did, you were sore. I kinda...” He flushed hot, breathing in on a smile. “I kinda wanna go down and see everyone, and be like, Cas just fucked me. Have it written all over me.”  
“Bruises are not the best way to do that,” Castiel whispered, kissing Dean’s jaw. “And believe me, you will be sore no matter how gently I penetrate you.”  
Dean purred.  
Castiel pressed in his last finger, smiling as Dean shivered, eyes closing. “What position would you like to have me in?” Castiel asked.  
Dean looked at Castiel. “How do you want me?”  
Castiel pressed his lips together. “We cannot both be in control, nor can we both submit ourselves to the other.”  
Dean smirked. “Wanna bet?”  
Frowning, Castiel nodded gently. “I bet.”  
Dean grinned and pawed at Castiel’s hand, pulling his fingers away. The grin fell from his face, replaced by a face that gasped, eyes dark, cheeks flushed.  
“F-fuck me,” he said. “Get comfortable, fuck a bit, then I wanna try somethin’.”  
Castiel swallowed and lined himself up against Dean, who was nudging his hips into him. Castiel set both hands on Dean’s hips―  
“Whoa, your hands are clean?”  
Castiel looked at them. “Yes? I cleaned them with magic.”  
Dean stared. “I wanna be dirty.”  
Castiel stared back. “I don’t.”  
Dean tilted his head, shrugging. “I can compromise. Eh, that’s cool. Now _fuck me_.”  
Castiel smiled and shifted closer. Dean started whining, thighs trembling as he held them apart.  
“Are you ready?” Castiel asked.  
Dean only whimpered and grabbed Castiel’s cock with his hand, making an odd movement with his hips and guiding Castiel inside, all in one movement. Mojo-slick.  
Castiel gasped, and Dean moaned, loudly. His back was arching, hips still on the bed, arms and hands clutching at the bed’s wooden headboard.  
“Uooouuuhh,” Dean cried, through a half-open mouth. “Move - _move_ ―”  
Castiel was already moving, _mating_. He was mating with Dean. He was the boy deer.  
Dean keened and gasped, broken noises and stutters leaving his mouth, deep sounds rumbling in his chest. The glass pendant on his neck was trembling as he vibrated, his whole body shivering.  
Castiel clutched the backs of Dean’s thighs, holding him down as he pressed into him. He felt that overwhelming heat, similar to when Dean took him in his mouth, but this was so much deeper, so much tighter and slicker and - he could control this _himself_. It wasn’t on Dean’s terms. He could fuck down, he could fuck deep, and Dean only moaned in pleasure and wanted more.  
This was so wet, and slimy - Castiel heard the slapping of skin on skin, his balls hitting Dean’s ass as he began to pound.  
Dean was almost screaming out, deep sounds, yells of bliss.  
“How - how does that feel,” Castiel hissed. “To you, Dean, what are you feeli―?” He broke off in an open-mouthed moan to the ceiling, rushing with sensation.  
“It’s - it’s a... God, it’s a _fuck_ \- it’s you, it’s Cas fucking me―” Dean gasped five times in quick succession, ending with a desperate, tiny shriek.  
“Cas,” he grunted. “Up - up against the wall.”  
Castiel looked quickly to the wall, the one opposite the fireplace. It was empty of furniture all the way along, just smooth stone. Dean looked too, then back to Castiel.  
“Wanna get over there, get outta me, quick―”  
Castiel pulled out, both of them groaning wretchedly. Dean swung his legs past Castiel and stumbled to the wall, leaning on it as he waited for Castiel to catch up to him, his arms clumsily finding Dean's waist. Dean turned and pressed his forearms to the wall at his head, hips stuck out behind him. His head turned to look at Castiel, waiting for him to press back inside.  
“Fuck me from behind,” Dean breathed. He bit down on his lip and his spine rolled languidly after he spoke, sighing as Castiel pushed his body against Dean from the back. “You know, I love sayin’ it out loud,” Dean muttered. “Fuck me. Put your cock in me - o- oh, yeah, oh God, oh―” He rocked back into Castiel, his own hips rolling forward, like he too was making love to someone in front of him.  
Castiel wrapped his arms around and over Dean, both hands finding Dean’s dick and tugging it, breathing hotly into the crook of his neck.  
“Lick me,” said Dean.  
Castiel’s tongue lapped at Dean’s skin, and he moaned very quietly, finally tasting Dean’s earthy aura, after so long of only memory.  
Dean’s hips suddenly pulled away from Castiel’s cock, shuffling forward. Castiel watched him change position: Dean was now right up against the wall, cock lined up with the stone, arms way above his head, outstretched.  
“Fuck me like this,” Dean said. He was having trouble keeping his balance, but Castiel stepped in behind him, feet spread apart, pushing his weight to Dean's back and keeping them both upright. His member found its mark, already-slicked skin allowing him to push right back where he should be.  
Dean moaned, head tipping back to slide and rest on Castiel’s shoulders. Most of Dean’s weight was supported by Castiel now. He was so much stronger than before. He could take the weight easily.  
“Dean?”  
“Ye- yeah Cas.”  
“I can’t see your face like this,” Castiel whispered, kissing the back of Dean’s neck. “I want to see your face... I have a better position.”  
Dean immediately stepped back, Castiel slipping out of him. Dean’s face was crazed with lust, dizzy with it. Castiel moved him into position: he pushed him back against the wall, hearing skin slap on stone as Dean hit it. Castiel looked down at Dean’s body, his reddened cock, his shining, slick thighs.  
Castiel grabbed for Dean’s inner thighs, lifting him as Dean gave a loud yelp of shock. His whole weight was now on Castiel’s hands, and Castiel juggled his legs, pulling them apart and letting his own body fit between them. Dean’s hands locked behind Castiel’s head, and Castiel raised Dean’s thighs higher, hooked over the crooks of his arms.  
“I feel helpless like this, Cas,” Dean whispered, kissing Castiel. “You wanna fuck me when I’m helpless?”  
Castiel edged closer and pushed inside again, Dean sinking down over him. “Yes.”  
Dean gasped into Castiel’s mouth, a sound that became a long, quiet, and endlessly broken wail.  
“God,” Dean barked, head hitting the stone gently as he relaxed, carried up and down the wall with Castiel’s thrusts. “God, this is we-ird.”  
“What’s weird about it?” Castiel asked.  
Dean licked his lips, sighing out a slow moan as Castiel’s pressure grew harder, pushing him forcefully into the wall by his shoulders and hips.  
“That - you’re holding me. There’s nothing ab-out this that screams ‘dude’.”  
“You don’t like it?” Castiel whispered, kissing behind Dean’s ear. He already knew the answer.  
“I like it - fuck, yes, I like it.” Dean rolled his head back again and made a breathy sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. “Don’t s-stop, Cas, don’t stop―”  
Castiel wrenched his hands under Dean’s buttocks, Dean screaming out as it happened - Castiel struck off the wall, stepping backward with Dean in his arms, weight all on his forearms and hands.  
“Oh- OH, CAS―” Dean screeched, chin tilting up as his arms cradled Castiel’s head, bouncing on Castiel’s cock. Castiel held him over the bed, just in case his strength gave out.  
“Jesus - Jesus Christ, Cas, how are you so strong, how are you - _aaueeehhh_ ―” Dean couldn’t function like this, he was writhing and bucking, helping Castiel to bounce him on his hips.  
“God - God―”  
Castiel’s legs wobbled and he dropped Dean to the bed, immediately falling into another wave of fucking, Dean under him, right on the edge of the mattress.  
“Oh - _oh_ ―” Dean was delirious with pleasure and arousal, his eyes unfocused, hands shaking as they still held onto Castiel’s hair. “Ca-ha-hasss, _yes_ , oh―”  
Dean kicked his legs, pounding Castiel in the back, not hard, but with heavy pressure, forcing him deeper inside Dean. Castiel’s hipbones were crushed to Dean’s ass, muscle giving as Dean whined, dropping his hands back against the bed and exposing his underarms to Castiel.  
“Harder - harder, Cas―”  
Castiel tried his best to oblige, only enough capability to go faster, rougher, less controlled. Apparently that was what Dean wanted.  
“Shit Cas, we gotta - we gotta do this every fucking time, we gotta fuck like this―” he keened, eyes tight shut as the whole bed lurched with their thrusts, pillow already tumbled to the floor. “I need you inside me, every time, every time we - mmmmh...”  
“But,” Castiel huffed, halfway across the bed as they bucked, moving across the sheets, “What if I want you - inside _me?_ ”  
“Both. Both at once, all at once―” Dean groaned again, head and shoulders over the side of the bed as Castiel rammed him further. “I fuck you and then you fuck me and then we fucking come everywhere and fuck everything and - uh, _uuh_ \- shit Cas, I’m fallin―”  
They landed together in a heap on the floor, unable to stop the rocking motions; Castiel fucked them away from the bed, Dean spreading out in front of him across the floorboards.  
“Wait, I wanna change, pull out a second...”  
Castiel whined under his breath as he removed himself, hating the air for being colder than inside Dean, for not being _Dean_ ―  
Dean rolled onto his front, hands and knees to the ground. “Like a dog, Cas. I’m the girl dog. Do it.”  
Castiel assumed it would be like how the deer mated; the male climbs atop, like so... He inserts himself, the girl dog whimpers and bucks back, grunting out Castiel’s name.  
“Like a dog, Cas,” Dean gasped, and Castiel had to shake his head.  
“How does a dog mate?”  
“F-fast, like they hump your leg, I guess. Um, bam-bam-bam, sort’a... Yeah - yeah, li- like that... mmhhhh... shii-ii-iit ye-s...”  
Castiel liked this. He held onto Dean from above, and even though he couldn’t see Dean’s face, he liked that Dean was open before him, arms reaching out across the floor as he kneeled. Everything was happening at Castiel’s hips, he could look down and see his cock vanishing fast inside Dean. His hole was red, slippy and mojo-wet, sore. Handprints marred the skin of his ass, from where Castiel had held his weight.  
“Okay - okay, save that for later―” Dean gasped, trying to wriggle free of Castiel’s assault. Castiel pulled out, watching Dean turn around again, legs on either side of Castiel’s. “We gotta do it doggy-style some other time, pretend to be dogs, and meet each other and fall in love and screw the fuck out of each other.”  
Castiel sat still as Dean climbed into his lap, nodding as he spoke.  
“Yes. But - we should both be boy dogs. You’re not a girl dog, you’re just the boy dog who likes being penetrated.”  
He kissed Dean’s heart, then the pendant on the chain. “I thought this was lost,” he whispered, and Dean nodded, lowering himself onto Castiel’s cock while straddling his thighs. Castiel guided himself in with a hand, then let Dean lead as he fucked himself on Castiel, frantic pace eased.  
“It _was_ lost,” Dean said, adjusting himself so one hand held himself to Castiel’s shoulder, the other braced to the floor, keeping him up. “I found it in the cage.”  
“It was there this whole time? Mmh - sh- surely you would have seen it. You transformed in there so many times.”  
Dean nodded. “I think - I think Death - fuck - I think he wanted us to - haaa- have it...”  
Castiel and Dean watched each other‘s eyes as they made love, slowly now. Castiel couldn’t move at all, Dean doing all the work as he lifted and sank himself over Castiel’s folded legs. Castiel was leaning back slightly, to accommodate for Dean’s body straining so his ass could meet Castiel’s cock.  
“Do you like it slow?” Dean asked under his breath.  
Castiel’s eyes studied Dean’s body, held awkwardly at an angle, legs parted around Castiel’s lower stomach.  
“Yes.” He flicked his eyes back to Dean. “Any time we are together, I’m going to love it. The speed - at which we make love... makes little difference to my enjoyment. Every - _mm_ \- every moment with you... it feels like the peak, it always gets better, but it never comes down, it’s _always_ better―”  
Dean lifted himself off the floor, hovering his weight on Castiel’s lap for only a second as he pressed a kiss to his lips - then he made to fall back to the same position, but changed his mind.  
He rolled back onto his shoulders with a thump, legs still wrapped around Castiel. Dean looked back at him, then smirked.  
“Like this. Finish it here, make me come like this.”  
Castiel was already trying; hands under Dean’s thighs, lifting his legs so his knees were on Castiel’s shoulders. Dean’s back was against the floorboards, arms reaching out over his head, relaxed.  
“Mmmm,” Dean murmured, head falling to the side. “Rough. Fast. Hard. Like this.”  
Dean’s hips bucked up, hitting back down on Castiel’s hips as his cock was swallowed ever deeper by Dean’s ass, Dean setting the rhythm. Dean was moaning again, mouth open, half-lidded eyes set on Castiel as he looked down at him, fucking him.  
~  
 _―Thud... thud - thud-thud-thudda-thudda-thud-thud―  
Mooooaaaaaannnn..._  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Ellen sighed, throwing down her dishcloth. “Why did I have to give him the room _right_ above the bar?”  
Sam smirked and helped himself to another slice of plum pudding. “I think they’re doing it on the floor.”  
“They’re doin’ it on purpose,” Bobby grumbled, dragging down another sip of cider. “Torturin’ us.”  
“It’s not so bad,” Gabriel said from the window, staring at the ceiling. “At least we don’t know exactly what they’re doing.”  
 _―“Auuuugh - fuck me! Fuck me!”―_  
Gabriel shut his mouth.  
Jody snorted and twirled her fork on the table, glancing at the ceiling as the thumping kept up. “You know, I can’t even tell whose voice that is,” she muttered, shrugging as Chuck caught her eye. “It’s not obvious like when there’s a man and a lady; all men sound the same through a floor or a wall.”  
“Pff,” Jo said. “It’s Cas. Did you see the way Dean carried him? He’s his wife.”  
Sam frowned, but grinned as well. “They’re both guys, there can’t be a wife.”  
“There’s a man and a woman in every relationship,” Ellen said, slapping a glass down on the bar, ignoring the split that climbed up it. “Even if they’re both men.”  
Sam shook his head. “Not true.”  
“Who wants to bet it’s Cas taking it hard?” Pamela suggested, lounging across the bar and prodding Charlie in the arm with a fork. “Whole bag full’a money says it’s Dean on top.”  
Sam squinted at her. “But you’re a psychic, that’s cheating.” Pamela only winked.  
“Hell, if the psychic’s money’s on Dean,” Garth said, tapping the bar with a finger, “Ten gold coins and a slap on the back says the pretty-boy angel’s the one underneath.”  
“Oh, come _on_ ,” Sam complained in disbelief.  
“My money’s on Dean topping,” Gabriel piped up. “Or, you know, a nosebag if I win, free pony ride if I lose.”  
Sam shoved an open hand at him, confused. “But you’ve heard their stories, you know that―”  
“My money’s on Dean,” Bobby grunted, setting a tiny brown purse on the table, leather clinking with coins inside. “Dean doin’ the _man’s_ job.”  
Sam stared at Bobby. There was absolutely no way that wasn’t a ploy. Sam knew for a fact that Bobby didn’t think any of what he just said was true.  
 _―Thud-THUD-thud-thudda-thudda-thud-thud―_  
“Dean on top!” Jo said, raising a hand. “I got five silver, that’s my bet.”  
“Ruby necklace says Dean on top,” Bela added, removing the gems from around her neck. “They’re fake rubies, but nobody’ll know the difference if you take it out of town.”  
Cupid shrugged and put a coil of a gold chain on the table. “Castiel’s too sweet-natured to want to do _that_ to Dean. Not properly. Dean on top.”  
“Dean’s always been such a _manly_ man,” Missouri said, winking at Sam. “I doubt he’d let anyone take advantage of him... This month’s savings, all on Dean.”  
“Money’s on Dean,” Chuck said cheerfully. He put a single coin on the table.  
Sam gaped. Charlie threw a scatter of coins into the ‘Dean’ pile, then stared at Rat until he did the same.  
“Seriously, guys,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Cas totally likes doing it w―” He closed his mouth. “I mean, Dean’s kinda into the whole―” He rubbed a hand over his lips awkwardly.  
“Everybody piss off, my money’s on Cas topping,” Sam concluded, slapping down the bag of stolen money in his belt. It had lasted two weeks, and it sure as hell wasn’t about to be lost. If anything, his money was about to be augmented fifty times over.  
 _―“Auooooh, ooouuuhh...”  
Thud-thud-thud-sskkkk-thud-thud..._  
Everyone looked at Ellen, who was glaring at everyone. She smirked and rolled her eyes, then laughed gently. “Fine. Money’s on Dean. I don’t exactly see him as the lie-down-and-take-it kinda guy.”  
Sam pursed his lips. Oh, he had this one in the bag.  
~  
“Oh, fuck, Cas, don’t stop, don’t stop...”  
“I have - absolutely - no intention - of stopping.”  
“Are - are you close?”  
“Uh-huh,” Castiel murmured, whining under his breath. His mouth fell open again and he moaned, low and loud. “Sha- shall I come inside you?”  
“Fuck yes―” Dean clawed at Castiel’s shoulders, hands dragging upward through his hair. “Make me feel it, make me all sticky.”  
“I think - I think they can hear us...”  
“They better be enjoying it theeaaAAAA-shit-shit-shit, oh my God, Cas, come in me, come in me―”  
“Almost...” Castiel gasped, eyes half-closed. Dean was thrashing on the floor, hips bucking and stomach muscles rippling as he exerted himself, trying to push Castiel deeper. “I’m almost th-there...”  
“Say my name - when you come, say my name―”  
“Your name is what I always sa- I scream it, every time - every time―”  
“You jerk off and you think of me?”  
“Yes.”  
“Your hand inside you, you imagine it’s me?”  
“ _Yes_...”  
“You lick your fingers and taste your own jizz, you pretend it’s mine, you lick and you swallow, suck your own fingers, fuck, put your fingers inside after, it’s wet and God, you’re so... fuck... Cas - Cas!”  
“Dean - _Dean_ , oh Dean―”  
“Say it! Say it!”  
“DEAN - please, please, OH - _DEAN_ ―”  
“Holy fuck... oh mmm- gonna come, coming, coming―” Dean grappled for Castiel’s neck and hauled himself up into his lap, trying to get Castiel’s arms around him, pulling him close, “hold me - hold onto me, I’m coming, I’m - _Cas_ ―”  
Dean whined, eyes set on Castiel’s as his body jerked and tormented itself, Dean crying out a low note, vaguely resembling Castiel’s name.  
Dean breathed hard over Castiel’s mouth, tongue sweeping both their lips, swallowing sharply.  
“H-holy shit,” Dean sighed. “You came in me, I felt it...” Dean smiled, gaze rolling across Castiel’s face, so close up. “You’re still inside me, Cas. Your cock... still in me.”  
“Do you want me to mo―”  
“Don’t move. Don’t move it.” Dean sighed again, licking his swollen lips. “Wanna feel it go soft...”  
He heaved laboured breaths, muscles shivering with fierce exhaustion. Castiel was mostly still, also panting, but held himself steady as Dean concentrated on the feeling inside him, of Castiel’s diminishing erection.  
Dean and Castiel met each other's gazes, their faces an inch apart. Dean leant his nose on Castiel’s, and their lips kissed gently, barely touching.  
“Glad you’re with me, Cas,” Dean sighed. “Last five years sucked.”  
Castiel nodded slightly, hand stroking Dean’s hair the wrong way. “I never want to be cursed again.”  
“Same.”  
Dean kissed Castiel again, harder this time, turning his head. “You feel different now,” he muttered, referring to Castiel’s flaccid member, still inside. “Kinda squashy.”  
Castiel smirked. “Should I pull out now?”  
Dean paused, then nodded, kneeling on the floor either side of Castiel’s legs to let him pull down with a floppy wet noise.  
“Man, that is so not sexy,” Dean whispered, then laughed as Castiel blinked at him.  
Dean’s laughter died down to a smirk, and he shuffled forward, the heat of his body right against Castiel’s again. Dean’s semen was smeared between them, but while Castiel predicted Dean was about to play with something, he wasn’t expecting―  
Dean put his hand between his own legs, a finger pressing inside his hole. He sighed with relish, mouth quirking into a tiny smile.  
“Put a finger in, Cas,” he said. Castiel looked down, then back to Dean, handing Dean a finger to guide inside. It slid in and joined Dean’s, past the ring of loosened, hot muscle, to the slickness of his inside walls.  
“You feel that wetness?” Dean whispered, and Castiel nodded slowly. “That’s you, you came there. Fuck.” Dean bit his lower lip, running his and Castiel’s fingers together inside him. “Mmh.”  
Castiel swallowed and waited until Dean pulled their fingers out before moving his hand away.  
He and Dean just looked at each other for a long moment, their breathing eventually steadying.  
“I enjoyed that,” Castiel said. “Very much.”  
Dean nodded, blinking slowly. Then he leaned forward and gently pushed Castiel down to the floor, rolling off him so they lay next to each other. Castiel was on his back, head turned to see Dean lying on his side, facing him. One side of Dean’s head was pressed to the floorboards, hair mussed and his face fatigued but happy. His eyes were shining with content.  
Castiel had so many things he wanted to tell Dean, all the little things he’d thought of in their years apart. Snippets, notes of conversation, birdsong he’d learned to replicate, things he’d learned to draw. There had been people Castiel had met along the way, people that Dean didn’t yet know about. Castiel had faced his own adventures every night, fought his own battles while protecting Dean. He wanted to tell Dean each and every one of these things, but he had no idea where to start.  
He sighed, and smiled as Dean’s hand found his heart, stroking over his skin. Dean stilled his palm over it, and felt his pulse, eyes half-closed.  
Castiel moved his own hand, setting it over Dean’s, his fingers finding Dean’s inner wrist. He too felt his heartbeat, as strong as ever.  
In the end, it only took a smile from Dean, and just like that, Castiel’s stories spilled out of him, one after the other. Dean laughed, replied with tales of his own, each of them punctuating their recollections with blessed laughter. Quiet, low sounds. Just happy to finally be able to tell each other everything they’d kept to themselves for so many years.  
They lay like that for an hour, maybe two. By the time Dean leaned over to press a kiss to Castiel’s lips and pull them both to their feet, the sun had set.  
~  
They barely washed. Castiel hadn’t kept enough water to clean them both fully, but they rinsed their hands, faces and lower halves, trying not to laugh. The joy of simply having each other again was breathtaking in itself, but that they had the opportunity to touch, to wash each other, and to kiss... Castiel was drowned in Dean’s world right now. He didn’t want to leave.  
But they had to rejoin their family; Castiel had not eaten for nearly two full days now, not since they’d rested at Limn’mere. As they walked together into the hallway between all the bedrooms, Castiel inhaled deeply. The smell of food made his mouth water, and he breathed out an anticipatory hum.  
“What’s your favourite food, Cas?” Dean asked quietly, bare toes brushing Castiel’s as they paused at the top of the stairs.  
Castiel tilted his head and smiled at Dean, chuckling as he replied, “Cherry pie, of course.”  
Dean swallowed, his hand unconsciously running up and down against Castiel’s shirt hem, fingers twitching against it. Castiel got the impression that Dean just wanted to take all their clothes off again, and make love repeatedly until they’d made up for all the moments that Meg had taken away from them.  
“One day I will learn to cook,” Castiel muttered, speaking quietly so the group downstairs couldn’t hear him, pulling Dean down the first few stairs. “I will not burn anything. Your cherry pie will be perfectly baked, and as sweet as honey.”  
Dean sighed and stopped Castiel on the stairs before his waist got to the line of light from below. He kissed him, hands in Castiel’s shirt collar. As he pulled away, he whispered, “You’re always as sweet as honey, Cas.”  
Castiel touched Dean’s lips, then took his hand and pulled him down the rest of the stairs.  
“Ah! There they are!” Cupid called, setting his palms together. “Thought it was a little quiet.”  
Dean huffed, looking to Castiel rather than their friends. Castiel didn’t even realise he was smiling until he felt his cheeks twitching with the strain. He’d not kept up an unconscious smile for this long in years.  
“How do we tell?” Bela whispered to Rat, who shrugged back at her.  
The whisper carried, though, and Pamela laughed for a few seconds, then lifted a hand and pointed. “Someone get them both a chair.”  
Chuck was already on it, setting two empty wooden chairs side-by-side among the group of people, the surrounding bunch scraping their own seats back to accommodate them. All of them were sitting around a line of pushed-together tables, all laden with food and drink, plates and bowls and cooking pots, all full. And a pile of money.  
Dean eyed the coins and jewellery as he helped Castiel sit down first, gesturing him to his seat like a gentleman would for a lady. Castiel smiled, and pulled the chair up to the table himself before Dean could push it in.  
“What’s the loot for?” Dean inquired, scouring the sea of faces who were all looking between him and Castiel with rapt expressions. Castiel watched Dean take his own seat, pulling it close to the table before sitting―  
Dean jerked back up, thighs hitting the edge of the table with a gasp of pain.  
The whole audience of friends leapt into a murmur and then a cry of uproar, hands pointing and faces turning to each other, some laughing, others chattering away.  
Dean and Castiel looked at each other, Dean licking his lips as he lowered himself _gently_ to his seat.  
“Um,” Dean said. “What’s going on?”  
Sam grinned, sweeping the money into his own arms from across the table. “I believe this is all mine.”  
“Darn it,” Garth said, knocking a fist on the bar. “I was so sure, too.”  
“Such a pity,” Missouri said, in a tone that implied she did not regret anything at all. “Never thought a psychic could be so wrong.”  
Dean frowned, but Castiel smiled and tried to look away.  
“What... what were you wrong about?” Dean asked, sitting awkwardly.  
Sam was counting his money. “Everyone decided you were... or rather, Cas was the one... uh―”  
“Sheathing your sword.”  
“Receiving divine revelation.”  
“Doing what the woman’s meant to.”  
“That’s _not_ a thing―”  
“Bein’ stabbed in the backside like Julius damn Caesar.”  
“ _Backwards_ ―”  
“Taking your dick up his ass.”  
Everyone looked at Gabriel as he spoke last, a lull in the barrage of metaphors. Gabriel found a way to shrug, looking sideways at Lucifer, who stood next to him. Even Lucifer rolled his head at Gabriel’s tactlessness.  
“What?” Gabriel demanded. “We all bet, it’s only fair we gave him a straight answer.”  
“You _bet_ on us?” Dean blurted, disbelieving. “On which of us was... taking it?”  
Jo giggled behind her hand, Charlie catching her eye as she did the same.  
Everyone was smirking at Dean now, and he looked them all up and down, then glanced at Castiel.  
Castiel, for whatever reason, winked. He surprised himself in doing so, but it felt natural at the time, and Dean accepted it without a thought.  
Dean bit his lower lip and glanced to Castiel’s mouth, then to everyone who was watching him.  
“Well, uh... Actually, yeah.” Dean was blushing, but he held his eyes to the table, determined not to back down now. “Yeah, Cas and me... I... Cas screwed me. F-from behind.”  
Castiel was blushing too now, but dragged in a breath and added, “And from in front. And against a wall, and all over the floor―”  
“Holy hell, _enough!_ ”  
Castiel and Dean both laughed, hands finding each other and holding on tight under the table.  
The atmosphere was as warm as ever, all of their friends laughing amongst themselves again, passing food around.  
Dean grabbed a plate and heaped food onto it - Castiel took one of his own, but then found Dean was passing him the plate he’d just loaded up.  
Castiel took it with both hands, smiling. Dean winked, pursing his lips.  
“Hey, Ellen,” Sam called out. The conversation quietened, everyone somehow aware that something interesting was about to happen.  
“Yeah, hon,” Ellen called back.  
Sam looked around at all the people watching, then to Ellen. “How much do I still owe you?”  
Ellen was silent for a while. Then she set down her plate and looked at the table, piled with money. “About as much as you got there, I’d say.”  
Sam smiled quietly. “Yeah, I figured.” He looked to Dean, then smiled wider. He scooped all the money out of the neat piles and into his shirt, carrying it like a basket over to the bar where Ellen was. He tipped it out over the wood, coins clinking and spinning to a halt.  
“I think that ought to cover it,” he said quietly, and Ellen stared for a moment before nodding, setting a hand on Sam’s arm.  
“Thank you, Sam.”  
Sam looked away, then to everyone who had placed a bet. “Thank _you_ \- all of you. Especially―” he gestured between Dean and Castiel, nodding. “You two. For your weird grossness and over-sharing.”  
Dean saluted him. “Welcome, Sammy.”  
Castiel nodded back to Sam, “We will continue to over-share indefinitely.”  
“NOoo,” the entire audience groaned, and Dean actually jumped in his seat at the sudden noise.  
~  
Their meal continued for well over an hour, serving upon serving heaped onto plates, new bowls brought out with freshly-made items, plates taken away in batches to be cleaned.  
Stories were told, lives caught up on.  
Balthazar hadn’t been able to make it here today, as he was Captain of the Guard now; Castiel was disappointed at first upon hearing this, but it gave way to pride as soon as Missouri told him all the ways the city had changed, even under two days of his command.  
Chuck had two daughters now, and would be leaving first thing tomorrow to get back to them and his wife, Becky. He was three years sober. The drink in his hand was nothing more than pressed apple juice. On hearing this, Chuck received a congratulations from every person in the room.  
Sam and Charlie took turns in the kitchen with Jo, and by the time early night came, everyone was back in the central room, most of the food put away, but a few plates still held morsels and tidbits of crunchy things.  
The fire was roaring hot, well-stocked. There didn’t seem to be any other customers at the tavern this night - nor the previous night; it was only the Winchesters and their greatly extended family.  
Gabriel had yet to start singing, but Sam only gave it an hour or so, because he swore he’d seen Bobby tipping some mead into the horse trough that was just inside the window.  
Once night had fallen too cold, Ellen gave in and allowed the horses inside, promising that if either Gabriel or Lucifer made any mess, she would be mounting their heads on the wall before they could say ‘neigh’. Chevy and Crowley stayed in the stable, a decision that Bobby said they made entirely by themselves. Sam didn’t question it, as he was absolutely certain that Ellen could not stomach another hoofed creature walking on her polished floors.  
The constant rumble of happy conversation was only interrupted by Dean, at perhaps nine or ten o’clock in the evening. Everyone was quite heady from drink by then, and Sam couldn’t remember ever being this pleasantly warm.  
Dean stood, tapping his mug with a spoon, laughing as he dropped it back to the table clumsily.  
“I, uh, have an announcement to make.” He looked to Castiel and shrugged. “Well, actually - it’s not really an announcement, more like a...”  
His sentence drifted away, and he stepped out from his chair, heading for the stairs. “I’ll be back in a minute, I have something to give you,” he called to Castiel, then took the stairs two at a time.  
Castiel frowned and looked to Sam, sensibly expecting an explanation from him.  
“He’s looking for his saddlebag,” Sam said, then grinned. He leaned under the table and pulled the bag out from below and set it on the tabletop. “I think there’s something you want to give to him too, isn’t there, Cas?”  
Castiel frowned, glancing at the fifteen-odd people who stared back. “The... ring?”  
Sam nodded and offered the open bag to Castiel, letting him dig around to find it. He withdrew his hand, looking at the circle of metal in his hand. Sam smiled and reached across to close Castiel's fist around the ring.  
“Don’t show him yet, wait till he shows you what he’s about to show you. When he gets back. I have his thing here.”  
Castiel nodded. The group around him were crooning, some sighing affectionate sounds. Sam smirked. Apparently, according to Jo, ring-gifting was ‘cute’. Charlie agreed intently.  
Dean clomped back down the stairs, calling, “Hey, has anyone seen my saddleba―”  
Sam was holding it up, swinging it. Dean jumped the last three stairs and strode back across the room, snatching it.  
“Bitch.”  
Sam smiled. “You should’ve kept the thing in your trouser pocket. If I wasn’t paying attention to the clothes you kept changing today, you’d have lost it already. Jerk.”  
Dean huffed and pulled his golden ring out, keeping it hidden in his hand. He gave Sam the bag back, who kicked it under the table again. Glancing at Castiel quickly, Dean leaned over the back of his chair.  
“I, uh, I made something for you.”  
Castiel’s eyes were shimmering in the flickering firelight. Sam watched his mouth curve into a smile, and Dean’s eyelids flutter in response.  
Castiel stood up, pushing Dean back so they were both between the table and the fire. They stood alone in that space, and Sam wondered if they might dance.  
Dean bit down on his lip, then took Castiel’s hand, the one that wasn’t clutched around his own ring. Dean looked at Castiel, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I, um―”  
He stopped talking, head down again. Castiel watched as Dean revealed his golden band, gasping as he looked back to Dean. Dean caught his eye and grinned. Hands together, Dean slipped the ring over Castiel’s finger. There was no pale skin from the band of another ring; the only other ring Castiel had ever worn in his life had not touched his knuckles in five years.  
“It means somethin’, Cas,” Dean said softly. “Somethin’... real.”  
Castiel looked at him, smiling with his eyes while his lips wobbled ever so slightly. “Something true?”  
Dean nodded, then leaned to kiss Castiel, just once on the cheek.  
Castiel touched Dean’s jaw, then turned Dean’s face down gently, their eyes on Castiel’s hand. With his closed fist, he stroked his thumb over the golden ring. It didn’t look right on him at all; his skin was too pale from never seeing the sun, and Castiel’s complexion was for a silver, not a gold. It was just the slightest bit too big, the size of Castiel’s finger having been estimated.  
Dean bit his lip, looking at Castiel. “Is this a sign?”  
“No,” Castiel said. “But this is.” He opened his fist, revealing that he had also made a ring.  
Dean startled, looking at Castiel sharply. “You... you - oh my God.”  
“I made it with magic,” Castiel said. “I still don’t think it looks right.”  
“Like I _care_ , Cas - _look_ at that thing―” He moved his hand to pluck the ring from Castiel’s palm, but held back before he touched it. “Do you... wanna put it on me?”  
Castiel leaned his face closer, their noses bumping. Without a word, he touched Dean’s hand, and Dean straightened his fingers. The ring slipped on so easily, it slid all the way to Dean’s knuckle, and as he bent his fingers, it settled into place.  
“I never needed to measure your hand,” Castiel said. “I know your hands like I know your soul.”  
Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s other cheek, this one hot from the fire. “That’s pretty deep, Cas.”  
“Mm-hmm,” Castiel agreed breathily, his eyes not sure where to focus as they roamed Dean’s face.  
“Sorry your ring sucks,” Dean whispered.  
“It doesn’t suck in the slightest,” Castiel said, meaning every word. “But...” He looked Dean in the eye again, licking his lips. “I think I know what your ring is missing.”  
“What?”  
Castiel swallowed, taking in a quick breath as he looked to Sam. “How much power do I have remaining, Sam?”  
Sam almost jumped. “Uh.” He dug around in his pocket and withdrew the little glass vial. It was still glowing. He examined it, then met Castiel’s eye with a sombre look in his eye. “Not enough.”  
Castiel swallowed, and looked back at Dean. “Once my power is gone―”  
“Shhhhit, Cas, you’re gonna be immortal―”  
“Dean, please listen.”  
Dean closed his mouth, trying not to panic.  
“I am going to use the last of my power.”  
“But―”  
“Dean, I have every faith that you and I will be together. In this life or the next life - I will die eventually. There is no possible way for one to be truly immortal. Everything has its time. Everything ends.”  
“Cas - I don’t want this to end. Not now. Not ever.”  
Castiel shook his head. “This is not the end.” He stared at Dean, then nodded, vehement. “This is the beginning.”  
He wrapped his hand around Dean’s, covering the silver ring with his palm, then opened his hand so they could both see. As they looked at it, the ring began to glow. A fire surrounded it, pale and wavering like weeds underwater. Dean gasped, reaching with a shaking hand to stop Castiel, but the band shimmered on his finger, pulsing with light.  
“Cas―”  
Castiel’s magic stopped, shut off completely like a candle snuffed out. His eyes met Dean’s for only a second... and then Castiel fell, body crumpling to the ground, flopping out over the floorboards.  
The group at the table stood up as one, gasping - but nobody approached, only Dean on his knees at Castiel’s side.  
“Cas... _Cas!_ ”  
Dean frantically looked for Castiel’s pulse - his skin was pale and translucent, veins sallow across his body; he was greying as the seconds passed, eyes open.  
“Cas - Cas, no, don’t be dead. _Don’t be dead_ ―”  
Dean gasped and grabbed Castiel’s body into his arms, pulling him tight against him, holding in a wail. “Cas, come back, come back, don’t leave me...”  
The people at the table held their hands over their mouths, eyes wide, unmoving. Nobody could breathe, nor look away.  
“CAS!” Dean shouted, laying Castiel back on the floor. “No... _no_...”  
Dean’s fist curled firmly, hitting down on Castiel’s heart. “Don’t _leave_ me! Please!”  
Castiel remained limp, lifeless.  
Dean put a hand over his mouth, sobbing as tears began to run down his face. “Cas... Cas... please... Not now, not after everything. I _love_ you, Cas. I - honestly―” he pressed his forehead to Castiel’s heart, tears falling to his chest. “From the bottom of m-my heart, I - I say that―”  
He cried out, hands grabbing at Castiel’s shirt. “It’s not stopping, Cas...”  
His eyes closed so tightly that the tears were pressed out, running in lines upon lines across Castiel’s neck.  
“... _It’s not stopping_.”  
Castiel coughed.  
“Cas―”  
“Dean?”  
Dean dragged in the most painful breath of his entire life, eyes on the man who had just sat up before him, hands reaching for each other.  
“Cas... Cas, what the hell―”  
“That was unpleasant.” Castiel frowned, looking around himself. He caught Dean’s stricken gaze and had the grace to look surprised. “Dean, what’s...?”  
Dean fell forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s neck, pulling him tightly to him, breathing in a wet sound against his shoulder.  
“Shit, Cas, don’t - don’t _do_ that to me... What the hell happened?”  
Castiel pulled away, hands around Dean’s wrists. “What _did_ happen?”  
Dean gaped at him, shaking his head. The entire table of people were slumped back in their chairs now, breathing endless sighs of relief. Sam, Cupid and Charlie were all crying.  
“You _died_ , Cas. Your - your heart stopped...”  
Castiel blinked and put his hand over his heart. It was beating now, firm and steady, a little flustered by the commotion. “My heart...?”  
Dean tugged him to his feet, watery smile flickering into a wider grin, then he wrapped his arms around his neck again, kissing him soundly.  
“I think I know, Dean,” Castiel whispered, trying to sort through his thoughts. He suddenly breathed out a laugh, then looked to Dean, eyes full of hope. “The power of love, Dean, it still works.”  
Dean smiled and frowned at once, shaking his head in confusion.  
Castiel swallowed and explained: “My vessel... Jimmy, he was a dead man when―”  
“―he got you stuffed inside him, yeah,” Dean continued, nodding.  
Castiel kissed Dean quickly, then added, “His heart failed; he died when his heart did.”  
Dean held back, wanting to pull Castiel into a ferocious kiss, but forced himself to wait until he’d explained.  
“When I ran out of power...” Castiel laughed abruptly, eyes crinkling. “Death gave me a gift, after Meg was killed. I felt its power and knew it was magical, but I never knew its glory until now.”  
“What was it?”  
“The ability to die, Dean! I’m mortal!” Castiel breathed hard, smiling widely. He held Dean back before he could pounce on him, Dean instead frantically wiping tears from his face.  
“But now, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, “this vessel’s heart is no longer Jimmy’s.” He sighed and put his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, looking into his eyes as he concluded: “It’s yours.”  
Dean closed his eyes and pressed the most fantastic kiss he’d ever experienced to Castiel’s lips, hands in his hair, hands under his shirt, lips over his mouth - it was a full-body kiss, their hips together, legs between each other.  
The group at the table were cheering, raising the roof as they whooped and called for joy. Never had such a warmth enveloped Dean’s mind, body and soul, all as one.  
“Dean,” Castiel gasped, pulling away. “The ring, I did something...”  
Dean bent to retrieve the ring where it had pulled from his hand as Castiel had fallen. It was no longer glowing. It was intricate in its detail, the grooves in the silver as finely pressed as the veins in a leaf.  
Castiel slid it back onto Dean’s finger, then lifted his hand to kiss the ring. Then, after a moment’s thought, kissed Dean’s hand as well. Dean smiled.  
Castiel nodded to Dean. “Say my name.”  
“Hm?”  
“Say my name, Dean.”  
“Cas.”  
Castiel blinked. Dean frowned.  
“Is something meant to happen?” Dean asked.  
“Say my name... but think of me, and the ring.”  
Dean looked at his hand, held in Castiel’s, then met Castiel’s eyes. “Cas.”  
Dean’s eyes flew wide, mouth dropping open in shock. He didn’t know where to look; his eyes swept Castiel up and down, then moved to the Roadhouse, seeing his friends - then the fire on his other side. He ran to the window and looked outside, laughing out loud as he twisted his hands in his own hair.  
Castiel waited patiently as Dean freaked out, and was still smiling as Dean came back to him, panting.  
“Holy crap, Cas, this is how you see stuff, isn’t it? All the time?”  
Castiel inclined his head. “Say my name, and every colour illuminates.”  
Dean nodded, lifting his hand to kiss the golden ring on Castiel’s finger. “Sucks I can’t do the same for you. If I did that, you’d say my name and everything would be sucky and boring.”  
“That is how I see you now,” Castiel admitted. “But you are not boring at all. My death a moment ago took what remained of my corporeal Grace, I essentially see as you see.”  
Dean swallowed, then nodded. “You’re human.”  
“No,” Castiel smiled. He glanced to his shoulder, pulling back his shirt collar so the scar there was revealed. It was mostly healed - ten times better than it had been a few hours ago.  
“Wh... Cas?”  
Castiel rested his gaze on Dean, and smiled. “I am an angel.”  
Dean froze. “You’re... what?”  
Castiel shrugged, shirt slipping back to how it was. “I’m magical, I’m powerful, I’m free to go wherever and do whatever I please. I’m truly free.”  
Dean took a step back, face lined with oncoming heartbreak. “Cas...”  
Castiel realised what Dean was thinking and stepped forward to grab him, to stop him from leaving his side. “Dean... I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying.”  
“You’re staying?” Dean narrowed his eyes. “With me?”  
Castiel smiled, then looked across at all of his family. “Yes, Dean.” He pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips, stroking his thumb across his mouth. “I’m staying with you. I will live with you, I will die with you. I love you.”  
Dean’s mask of emotion broke into a messy laugh, eyes crinkling as he tried to control himself. “Huh - that’s... that’s great, Cas. M-... me too.”  
Castiel blinked slowly and smiled.  
“Um,” Dean said, tilting his head down.  
“Yes, Dean?”  
“There’s something I think you wanted.” His eyelids fluttered and he took Castiel’s hand in his own, exhaling happily as their rings clinked together.  
He turned to the family before them, some of whom raised their drinks in a silent toast to Dean and Castiel.  
“Everybody,” Dean said, “uh, you all remember?”  
“Yep!” Jo shouted, slopping some of her drink down her arm.  
Bobby saluted with a single finger to his forehead. “Gotcha.”  
Sam caught Dean’s eye and nodded.  
“Dean, what’s this about?” Castiel asked, frowning.  
Dean grinned. “Couldn’t get you a boy’s church choir, but, hey, I figured these guys might do.” He shrugged, dropping Castiel’s hand and stepping away, walking backwards to the table as he took a steady breath - then, licking his lips, opened his mouth to sing.  
“ _An angel, who fell from Heaven_ ,”  
Castiel breathed a laugh, a hand over his mouth as everyone else began to join in with Dean.  
“ _He fell in love, with another man_ ,”  
Voices, together - it was a harmony of sound, singing the same music, the same words... Bobby sang lower, Jo highest. Somehow they all matched up, trembling and beautiful.  
It was a serenade, from Castiel’s whole family, every one of them singing their love.  
Dean most of all.  
“ _He just keeps falling, no end in sight_ ,”  
Dean came forward again, still singing, wrapping his arms around Castiel as tears washed down the angel’s cheeks, ones of pure and utter joy.  
“ _Twisting and turning, whirlwind of light_ ,”  
Dean’s voice was deeper and richer from close up, whispering some notes against Castiel’s ear. Then he kissed Castiel, his song paused as he pulled away to take a soft breath.  
The group at the table kept on singing, “ _His lover holds... out his arms_ ,”  
Castiel looked at Dean, and Dean looked at Castiel. The song filled the space between them, and then their kiss did.  
“ _He catches him, and life goes on_.”  
Sam smiled, his voice dying out as he turned to look at the others, all smiling and happy. All together, they were good together. Even Gabriel had been singing in a somewhat reasonable tone. All eyes were on Dean and Castiel now, watching them as they began to dance.  
Dean had his arms around Castiel like one would hold a lady - but Castiel was leading, moving his feet in ways that Sam had never taught him.  
Dean was smiling, the tears long gone from his cheeks. Looking at the satisfaction on his face, no-one would ever know the pain he had suffered a few minutes ago. Castiel held him so carefully, smiling. Their embrace was the most loving that Sam had ever seen, and there was no stopping the sway of their feet as they moved across the Roadhouse.  
After a few moments, when the first song ended, another began, this one led by Bela, who was thumping her mug on the bar. Garth pulled out a lyre, and played some cheerful, bouncy ditty that didn’t seem to pause. Charlie joined in, playing a pair of spoons, and soon the whole group was cheering out the song, Bobby and Ellen dancing far too slowly for the tempo.  
Jo danced with Sam, Pamela with Cupid, Jody with Chuck. Gabriel was trotting by himself, but Sam broke apart from Jo to go and pet him on the head.  
Bobby edged up beside them, and in silence, both men leaned on the horse and the three of them watched Dean and Castiel spin around the Roadhouse floor, paying no heed to anyone else around them. They were lost in each other, and Sam was contented to see it.  
It was some minutes before they bumped into a table, Castiel falling backwards across it before Dean hauled him upright, laughing. Their flow was broken now, and they made their way over to Sam, Bobby and Gabriel; Dean’s arm around Castiel’s waist, Castiel’s around Dean’s.  
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, and Sam grinned.  
“Having fun?” Sam asked.  
Castiel burst out with an exhilarated laugh. “Plenty.” He looked to Dean, eyes shining.  
“Me ‘n Cas were just thinking,” Dean said to Sam. “We’re headed off at some point, go travelling and... stuff.”  
Sam blinked, standing up a little straighter.  
Castiel made to continue, “We were wondering if you would like to come with us.”  
Sam looked between the two of them, then glanced to Bobby, who bugged his eyes and nodded pointedly. Sam gaped and grinned, letting out a breathy laugh.  
“Y-yeah. Yeah.” Sam nodded, laughing again. “Yes. Thank you, oh my God.”  
Dean blew a raspberry, looking away then back again. “Don’t get too excited, you’re gonna end up spending the whole time avoiding me and Cas.”  
Sam narrowed his eyes. “How come?”  
Castiel smirked, bumping shoulders with Dean. “I believe this would be what you would call a ‘honeymoon’, or the closest thing to it, when two men are eternally bound by love and a bond that reaches beyond the veil of death.” He shrugged happily, Dean kissing his cheek.  
Sam shut his mouth. “Too late to back out now, huh?”  
Dean grinned. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be great, you know? Two Winchesters, an ex-fallen-re-angel, on the road... yeah, it’ll be fun.” Dean smiled, clearly overjoyed at the prospect.  
“And a talking horse,” Gabriel said. “Several horses, actually, I think Lucifer wants in as well.”  
Lucifer was indeed nosing Castiel in the back. Castiel petted his long muzzle, then kissed his forehead. “Of course,” he said.  
“Leaving so soon, boys?” Ellen butted in, having overheard. “You gotta at least stay a while and tell the whole story, start to end.”  
Sam huffed gently. ”Trust me, you’re going to wish you never said that.”  
“Eh,” Dean said, smiling at Ellen as she hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, warm and accepting. “Maybe we’ll... you know, stick around a few days.”  
Ellen smiled, nodding. “Days, weeks, months. You’re welcome here. All of you.” She patted Bobby’s arm and then moved off, calling out to everyone and offering another round of drinks. A cheer went up, and she laughed.  
“Whenever we leave... man, this is gonna be one crowded honeymoon,” Dean said, grinning at the floor. “Not even properly married. We’re gonna be living in sin,” he muttered, leaning close to Castiel’s ear, then purred against him, “for the _rest of our lives_.”  
Castiel sighed and kissed him again, and everyone in a five-foot radius rolled their eyes good-naturedly.  
Sam and the others stepped back, giving Dean and Cas some snogging room.  
Bobby bumped his eyebrows to Sam, who grinned. “It’s kinda nice,” Sam said. “That they’re all... y’know. Together like this. Kissing and stuff. Finally.”  
“You’ll get sick of it soon enough, kid.”  
Sam shrugged. “Guess. It’ll wear off though, right? A month down the line, they won’t be doing it so much―”  
“Wanna bet?” Bobby said. “They’re still gonna be screwing like bunnies ten years down the line. Twenty. Hell, they’re gonna die and go God-knows-where and they’re still gonna be doin’ it.”  
Sam snorted.  
As he watched though, it seemed apparent that it was true. That profound bond that Dean and Castiel had... it wasn’t going anywhere.  
Till Death do them part would be an understatement.  
As Sam surveyed the people gathered in the Roadhouse, he felt nothing but bliss. This was real, this was what family was. It was Dean and Bobby and Ellen and Cas - and _everyone_ else. All as one.  
The moment that Sam looked at him, Castiel swayed his kiss into a downward swing, and Dean leaned over the angel’s knee as he was bent over backwards.  
Sam laughed, and beside him, Bobby huffed.  
“Idjits.”

~x~


	6. Epilogue

The first time Dean saw Castiel’s wings, they were made of lightning. They’d taken no power of Castiel’s own to create, all he had to do was sit there and they showed themselves at his back.  
Bright, powerful. Beautiful.  
The night Dean saw those wrinkles of crackling light, he declared it the best night of his life so far.  
Then the storm came.  
It was five years before Dean ever saw Castiel’s face again, let alone his wings.  
~  
The second time Dean saw Castiel’s wings, Dean had a brother.  
They had been on the road for two months, after a long delay in the start of what Castiel insisted on calling their ‘honeymoon’.  
Stay for a few days first, Ellen said. Days turned into weeks, weeks went by and made a month. Dean had never had a better month in all of his life.  
By the time they left the Roadhouse, their ‘honeymoon’ became nothing other than an eternally extended road trip. Gabriel was happy, anyway. They all were.  
Springtime came, and the thawed roads became easier to drag the cart over; a broken wheel or a misplaced axel was far less common an occurrence.  
Castiel took Dean’s hand and led him to the edge of a cliff. Sam followed them. It probably said a little more about their relationship than Dean would care to dwell on.  
Take my hand, Castiel said to Sam.  
Sam didn’t hesitate. Like Dean, he never did.  
They leaned into the spring wind, carried along on updrafts through the valley. It was dust, and fresh leaves, pollen and flowers and gentle caress.  
Okay, so maybe _seeing_ the wings was a bit of a stretch, but Dean felt them.  
He felt them at his back, he felt them in the power of how they held to the cliff, in the way that they weren’t falling.  
Not yet.  
Castiel turned his face to Dean and honest-to-God _winked_.  
Then they were falling. Castiel was laughing, Dean was screaming, Sam was doing some of both.  
The wings this time were made of air.  
Powerful, moving, like a safety hold over Dean’s back.  
They landed in the ravine on a bed of thunder, the sound of it echoing like a monstrous creature up and down the valley. Dean fancied it even blew a few trees over.  
The three of them lay on the soft ground, looking up at the sky and laughing.  
Do you think we’ll ever get to Heaven?  
I don’t know.  
~  
The third time Dean saw Castiel’s wings, it was the first summer he’d spent with Castiel since the summer they first met.  
The sun was kind on the angel’s face, and its warmth touched his skin like a kiss.  
When he woke up beside Dean, neither of them could do anything but smile. They would kiss and make love, whenever the mood took them. Sam grew used to knowing when it was about to happen, and took the horses away to give them some privacy.  
Gabriel was a great friend. Lucifer too. While Lucifer had been gifted the power to speak by Castiel, he always chose to remain silent. It seemed he liked how much he could say with only his eyes. Sam learned to speak his language.  
This time, Sam lost track of where Dean and Castiel had run to. They’d left their clothes behind, and they’d been gone for hours.  
They were in a field. It probably belonged to nobody, and the grass was waist-high. They chased each other until they couldn’t any more, then they rolled in the grass until their skin was sore and the grass was flat. Then Castiel stood, smiling. Dean had wanted to make love, but Castiel wanted to give him something else, first.  
Turning his back, he strode away, and Dean scrambled to his feet to watch―  
Feathers created themselves from the dirt of the ground, the stalks of broken grass. Green leaves, dandelion seeds. Wings spread from Castiel’s shoulder blades, Castiel turning half back to smile down at Dean, proud.  
He was proud of his wings. He was proud of his angelic nature. But as Dean saw the glimmering debris, shining in the sun like dew on grass in the morning, he saw how human Castiel was. How flawed, how the dirt his wings were made from was every bit like the dirt on his soul.  
Dean loved him for it. He loved the flaws.  
He told Castiel so.  
It was the first time he’d ever said the words so directly, the first time he’d said it so Castiel could hear.  
They kissed, so slowly.  
Dean’s feet left the ground before he’d even noticed. They were six feet above the Earth, turning so their bodies met, held up not by flapping wings, but only by the power of Castiel’s Grace. They were resting on a bed of glitter, still shiny in the light. Dust had never seemed so glorious.  
They made love in the air, the wings eventually brushing away on the gentle wind. Dean’s whole weight was carried by Castiel’s hands, pressing handprints into his skin as the angel’s palms held his flesh.  
They landed back on the ground, shaking with exhaustion and pleasure and love.  
Dean’s favourite handprint was one on his arm, just by his shoulder. He didn’t know how Castiel had pressed so hard there; it wasn’t a weight-bearing touch, as all his weight had been on his hips as Castiel held him.  
It was a mark, a brand.  
Dean liked it.  
He joked about getting it tattooed there, but he never finished the thought before he caught Castiel’s eye.  
Brand me with it, he said. Put it there so it’s always there.  
Make me yours.  
You don’t belong to me, Castiel said.  
I want to.  
Dean never showed the mark to Sam. He hid it under his shirts, turned himself away should he ever undress in Sam’s presence.  
It wasn’t shame that made him hide it. Simply that the mark on his arm was for Castiel’s eyes only.  
Eventually he just stopped being unclothed if Sam was around. He went out of his way to make sure he never was. Sam never knew why the change had happened, but he was glad. He’d seen his brother naked and making love far too many times.  
~  
The fourth time Dean saw Castiel’s wings, Sam was there too.  
The leaves were turning brown, falling. The air was golden, and hummed with the rise and fall of a thousand calling insects, screaming for a last mate before they were lost to the winter. It was still warm - hot, even.  
They stopped their horses by a stream, Sam laughing and calling something about cutting Gabriel’s mane. Gabriel had learned to roll his eyes.  
Castiel wandered some way ahead, where the trees were a little thinner and the sun broke directly overhead, washing them in scattered light. It was like he was walking over a shimmering pond, of packed earth and flattened leaves rather than water.  
Dean, he said.  
Dean looked up. Castiel was smiling again.  
Dean knew that smile. That was the smile Castiel gave him before showing him something wonderful. Lovemaking, also. But this was no time for that, so Dean whacked Sam’s arm and pointed to the angel.  
Now he had everyone’s attention, Castiel turned away, walking very slowly. The sunlight rippled over his body, mostly lost in his dark hair. His hair was the longest that Dean had ever seen it, pulled up in thick spikes on his head, a few strands curving down over his face. It was perfect for holding on to, whenever Castiel pushed inside him. Slick and heavy and _thick_ inside him...  
Dean snapped his mind back to the present, and then he gaped in awe.  
Lifting from Castiel’s back was his magnificent pair of wings, feathers this time constructed from autumn leaves, picked up off the ground by a breeze that came from nowhere.  
The wings were bigger than ever; stretching Castiel’s full height to either side of him, the tops of them reaching straight out, rising; the rest like jagged semi-circles beneath.  
Dean could make out impossible muscles. He knew a bird’s wing, he’d had five years to learn how birds work. While similar, these angel wings were bent a little differently; the leaves rippled like a coat along their edge, flashing bright in the sun.  
Sam laughed, a hand to his head in astonishment. Gabriel was silent, for once.  
Dean only smiled, the beat of his heart in time with the pulses that the wings gave, beating other leaves up from the ground.  
Castiel had a storm at his back.  
That was the last time Dean ever saw Castiel’s wings, at least like that.  
~  
Once.  
Once more.  
Dean doesn’t want to count this one.  
Winter came. They’d almost been travelling a year, and they were still not tired of it. They never would be. This would go on forever.  
Dean had hoped so, anyway.  
He knew his angel was mortal. He knew he could die, and he could die like any human. Castiel and he had discussed it at great length, often with input from Sam and Gabriel.  
There was no Heaven awaiting Castiel if he died as an angel, not one that included Dean. They’d been looking for a way to change that, but no option presented itself.  
The way it had happened was always unclear to Dean. He wasn’t there until the last moment. Sam had been the one to try and protect the angel (not that he needed it), but he always said it happened too fast to comprehend.  
Afterwards, Castiel said it felt like falling. Pleasant, like there was that cushion of air to catch him. It didn’t hurt, he said.  
Dean didn’t believe him.  
The hatred that humans were capable of was always too great for any of the men to understand. Dean gritted his teeth and sank to his knees, failing to hold in a tear. A single tear, that hit the sand and buried itself in a second.  
Castiel was dead, body spread out across packed sand like he might have been sleeping. Were it not for the lash of blood through his chest, Dean would have believed it.  
Black, charred wings.  
They pooled out from behind Castiel’s shoulders like someone had dragged a leftover stick from the fire through the ground, marking out feathers and muscles and the edges of the bone, where the elbows bent when Castiel lifted them wide.  
He can’t be dead, Sam said.  
Feel his heart.  
It’s not beating.  
A shadow fell over them; not grief, not loss, but death.  
Capital-D Death.  
I can save him, Death said. I knew it would come to this, I have been waiting for this day. But I cannot simply give life, something must be given in return.  
A gift. Dean was ready to give his freely.  
No, Sam said.  
Half of Dean’s remaining life, to be given to the angel. They would each live a life half as long as Dean’s might have been otherwise. They might live another five, ten years, each.  
No, Sam said.  
Why do you do this? Sam asked Death. Why are you so willing to help one man, one angel? Only Castiel. Every other man, woman and child, they die without respite from death.  
Because, Death said, Castiel is my family.  
He looked at Sam, then at Dean. The brothers caught each other’s eye.  
You would do anything for your family, wouldn’t you?  
Yes.  
Half a life, to be given to Castiel. Do you agree? Death asked.  
No, Sam said.  
Shut up, Sam, said Dean.  
Sam placed his hand over Castiel’s heart, fingers sliding against Dean’s.  
I give my life, also, he said. One third of my life, one third of Dean’s. Gift them both to Castiel.  
Death inclined his head. You will die together. When the end comes, you will all pass as one.  
Do it.  
I cannot make him an angel, Death stated. His Grace is gone along with his second life.  
Dean and Sam looked at each other. Human’s not so bad.  
Do it.  
Death removed Dean’s shirtsleeve. What are you doing?  
This is the only way, Death said. This is where his life is kept. He gave part of his soul to you.  
Sam blanched as he saw the handprint on Dean’s arm. It was raised and swollen, redder than his skin. It was a scar, but one that Dean was not ashamed of, like so many of his other scars. He was Castiel’s.  
Death put his hand over it, and Dean was less uncomfortable about that than he thought he might be. Castiel was coming back, that was all that mattered.  
As a human, he could die once their life ran its course, and Castiel’s Heaven could be with Dean. Like he wanted.  
The heart under Dean and Sam’s hands began to beat. Dean laughed, eyes closed. He didn’t need to see to know that Castiel was looking at him.  
Death was gone.  
Sam, Dean, and Castiel. They lay in the sand together, ignoring the chill of ice as it lay a blanket over them. They were warm together.  
Together.  
They would always be together.  
~  
Dean counts this time as a single time.  
This time the wings stay there. Castiel flashes them away at will, and lifts them back when he knows Dean is looking. Dean never gets bored of seeing them. How could he?  
Pure light, pure Grace, pure energy. Pure love.  
Heaven is not what Dean imagined. There are no cherubs, no golden harps, there’s no shining gate.  
It’s only a garden.  
 _The_ garden.  
Not Eden. That was never what Dean wanted. It was never what Castiel wanted. Sam had never even considered anything else.  
Limn’mere.  
Dean is twenty-six, the age he was when he met Castiel and found his freedom.  
Castiel is twenty-eight, the age his vessel was when he met Dean and found his free will.  
Sam is twenty-two, the age he was when he met them both and found his destiny.  
Gabriel is a horse. (So is Anna.)  
Their friends visit, and often. Cupid, Andy, Balthazar, Missouri, Bobby, Ellen...  
The list is so long. It makes Sam’s heart float to think of how many people he’s found now, how many friends and family members.  
John, Mary.  
Everyone was here long before Dean, Castiel, and Sam had joined them. It’s like a gathering at the Roadhouse sometimes, other times it’s a picnic on the grassy banks of Limn’mere’s pool.  
Sometimes they recreate the hut by the waterfall that they dreamed of having. The landscape is different every time. Sometimes they sit in the sky and look down on the city where it all started.  
Sometimes Dean and Castiel make love on the grass, other times in one of Ellen’s Roadhouse beds. Even in death, she is never very happy about that. Still, she insists on changing the sheets herself, despite being able to snap them clean with a thought. They all have the power of an angel here. But old habits die hard.  
And sometimes Dean and Castiel make love as animals. A pair of wolves, male wolves. From the dock of the pool, bathed in the light of the fireflies, Sam can hear the howling.  
It isn’t broken and sad as Sam had once known it.  
This is a howl of pure joy. Endless, eternal joy.  
~  
Till Death do them part would be a fierce, _fierce_ understatement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave a comment to let me know what you think~  
> [Soundtrack available here](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/19648.html)


End file.
